Twas the night before Canton and throughout Bower Hill,
BHI wives cursed BHI players as they readied their Gatsby bills.
Clubs, spikes and balls tucked into trunks with great care,
Liquor, beer and dope packed with socks and old underwear.
It is 9:00pm now, the wives and children have gone to sleep,
Could it be only 12 more hours until Ed gives his speech?
“Welcome back to the BHI, Men.” Mr. Donehue says with pride,
“Stick your handicap system up your ass, Ed.” Mike Homa replies.
“Take it up with the Committee, Mike.” Chris Fording says with a smile,
As he lights one of his cheap gas station cigars and puffs it for a while.
“Those things will kill you, Chris.” Quips a man as he chunks a pitch,
“Only if your snoring doesn’t kill me first, you smartass, Mitch Cholovich.”
As the first group stands eagerly on #1 at Black Diamond,
Complaints, boos and hisses can be heard from behind them.
“What hell are we doing here again? We can’t even clear the ravine.”
“Speak for yourselves, bitches.” Says Chris Salera, as he rips a drive 315.
Up next is Derek DelRe, a fresh Pro-V in hand,
“Who talked in my backswing?” He screams, as he hooks it into the sand.
“I’m not rolling my ball this year, cheaters.” Proclaims DelRe with a grunt,
“GET OFF YOUR HIGH HORSE, JAGOFF!” Choonch utters, as he and Tim Ward roll a blunt.
With the front nine now behind them, the foursomes make the turn,
And the fair-skinned McVay’s are clearly starting to burn.
“I’m finished,” says a pale Cliff, “take my sunscreen for anointing,”
Then he runs off to vomit due to aggressive food poisoning.
Dellapina, Webb and Smith haze Bob Flood to get in his head,
“Aren’t you supposed to be an ace, Flood?” yells Dellapina, “You’re 27 over….you shit the bed!”
“Everyone duck!” Screams Smith, as he drops to his knees,
“It’s Jim West,” he says. “Crazy bastard is trying to hit through the trees.”
It is early afternoon now, and the carts circle 18,
Frank-O crunches numbers and says “Scramblers, show me the green.”
“Who wants some jerky?” says Marc McCarey, as he emerges from behind a tree,
“Remember that stripper from last year, Marc-O?” asks Ross. “Does it still burn when you pee?”
“Golf is fun,” says Andy Covert. “Are we really playing nine more?”
He turns to Jerry and Leslie and says, “I’m Andy. Have I met you before?”
“Where’s Bob-O and Carl J.?” say the McLaughlin’s. “We’re up next and they haven’t wagered.”
“They ran up to the parking lot,” yells Ron K. “Bob-O ran out of Jäger.”
As the scramble comes to an end, the crew is comfortably numb,
“How is Salera still standing?” asks Homa. “He finished a handle of rum.”
“Don’t worry, Homa, I’m driving,” says McCarey with a grin,
As he empties his bottle of Sprite, and replaces it with gin.
With everyone in their cars, it’s off to the hotel we go,
“Aren’t we forgetting something?” Asks Frank. “Something’s not right, this I know.”
When, what to our wondering eyes should appear?
“Saddle up!” Cries a resurrected Cliff. “To the titty-shaker for some beer!”
As we file into The Gatsby for some drinks and some sin,
The bouncer stops U.D., “I remember you. You can’t come in.”
“No problem.” Says U.D. “This place has no class,”
“I’ll see you guys back at the hotel…I’ll be with my lovely lass.”
At breakfast the next morning, U.D. enters with a smile,
“How were the trashy strippers?” He asks. “You were gone for quite a while.”
He was surely being sarcastic about the evening Gatsby adventures,
“Get yourself a blowjob, U.D.?” Asks Ed. “Did your lass take out her dentures?”
It is now Sunday morning at beautiful Seven Hills,
And another Sunday morning of headaches, nausea and chills.
Hair of the dog is necessary, if one is hoping to cope,
Be it beverage, pill or powder, or a hit of Rege’s rope.
By the grace of God alone, each golfer survives his day,
With carts in a tight row, they watch the final group finish play.
Wallets are light, eyes are heavy and morale is at a low,
Another BHI gone, another jacketless Sunday, another crushing blow.
Four men soon emerge, and one is a pariah,
A pariah named Cliff Rohal, a pariah who crumbalaya’d.
With his head lower than low, and his knees clearly weak,
Spiff taps in for a 10, and a tear falls from his cheek.
Within a few very short moments, skill prizes are handed down,
Handshakes are offered, and boisterous applause resounds.
For greenies, Skins and Stablefords, green exchanges hands,
But not the green, however, for which we all had planned.
Into sight, once again, emerges Frank’s shitty jacket,
Along with laughter, frustration and comments about how the BHI is a racket.
Another Sunday afternoon in Canton, and we know it’s time to go,
Another weekend of dirty secrets in O-H-I-O.