The Art of Putting

I the boast of the drives that flee. Like eagles over

the brae. But ask only golfer well renowned. It's putting wins the day.

For on the green where the world grown still they crowd to cheer me on.

It's just your touch and the trembling grass and the line you're laying on.

Oh, the wee raw matters lad. Fray a foot or two away.

The mighty swing begins to tail but the putt decides today. In the morning

mist or gray, aye the drives are grand but the game is won

by the putter canna stray. You read the break and you hold your breath