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Here’s to Walter Day, writer extraordinaire Handsome and virile, but as to golf, just fair. He says, “I’m 70,1 gotta have strokes.” Frank gives him eight, but even then, he chokes. His syntax is straighter than most of his drives He writes like he putts, will the end ever arrive? Some Charlie-come-lately has put down his writing, But Walt’s words are just fine, and don’t need such backbiting.
Hey, nobody’s perfect, so he voted for Perot. His faults don’t stop there, and this writer should know. Smile at his kids and his cats, and his golf, and his poker ’Cause when we read his fuzzy wisdom, we’re richer, not broker. With his bogeys, and Ihree-putts, and whiffs, not so rare He’s full up with critics, and there’s no room to spare. It’s “friends” like Zindel or Reynolds, not Francis, who care, So lay off our buddy - or we’ll feed you to the bear!
BUTCH ZINDEL
FRANK REYNOLDS
Grand Poobahs of FOB (Friends of the Bard)
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