Unclouded with tears;
It went slap through their cheeks down the fair-way and bunkered itself by their ears.
And if e'er in the future, cast down from the promise of Heaven,
Half-stymied by William, I grumble and groan at my fate
When he captures the hole (and the game) with a pretty bad 7,
Whilst my score is 8,
And I bubble with impotent anger, I seethe with tumultuous hate.
Let me think of my album of photos, whose title is "After,"
All cut from the dailies; it gives you most wonderful tips
For producing without any pressure the right kind of laughter;