With my driver, my iron, my niblick and cleek.
Now, TENNIS, I have thee; I charge from the Tee,
To the deuce with thy racket, thy scoring, and thee!"
And the ladies all cry, "Oh, Sir TENNIS, our own,
Drive him back whence he came to his bunkers and gorse."
And the men shake their heads, for Sir TENNIS seems blown,
There are cracks in his armour, and wounds on his horse.
But the Umpire, Sir PUNCH, as he watches says, "Pooh!
Let them fight and be friends; there is room for the two."