Golf Poem: The Tiger

Tiger, Tiger, burning bright
Who hits his drives out of sight,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
What hand weaved your swoosh attire,
Red Sunday shirts like a fire?

And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
Was your golfing fate complete?

What the hammer? What the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dare his deadly putting clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the hack make thee?

Tiger, Tiger, burning bright
Who hits his drives out of sight,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?