Judge, 1914-07-18 · page 10 of 24
Judge — July 18, 1914 — page 10: what you’re looking at
What you’re looking at
This is a humorous poem about golf's frustrations, illustrated with Frank Godwin's cartoon panels. The narrator—a stereotypical "tired businessman" seeking mental rejuvenation through golf—experiences mounting frustration across eighteen holes. Each hole delivers fresh disappointment: topped balls, sliced drives, missed putts, and increasingly worse scores. The satire targets the contradiction in the era's popular phrase "tired business man"—golf was marketed as relaxing recreation for stressed workers, yet the sport itself proves utterly maddening and exhausting. By the final holes, the protagonist is spiritually destroyed, ironically ending more exhausted than before. The illustrations show the golfer's physical and emotional deterioration. The joke is that pursuing "rest and recreation" through golf accomplishes the opposite: it transforms a weary man into a wreck, making him truly *deserve* the label "tired."
📄 Transcribed text from this page (OCR, searchable)
Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.
At | Nie 17 Worn OUT, depressed and melancholy, A victim of hard labor's folly, With nerves awry and out of gear, With sodden heart bereft of che; I sought, beyond the toiling scene, The solace of the ancient green. I needed rest and recreation, To foster mental elevation; Something to lift my morbid soul From out its sordid daily role, To give my frazzled nerves a rest From troubles that harassed my breast. And so, with joyous, buoyant mind, I left all work and care behind And beat it to the swarded plot Of soaring drive and mashie shot. I hit my opening drive a bang. “This is the life!’’ my gay heart sang. FIRST HOLE A noble shot—a lusty clout— In fact, a most amazing rap; And then I took my mashie out, To pitch beyond the guarding trap. Did I look up just as I hit? Or did I shift my wrist or knee? My topped ball fluttered to the pit And something died inside of me. SECOND HOLE I teed one up to let it ride, To make up for that other miss; The doggone pill sailed furlongs wide And dropped into a deep abyss. It took me eight before I got The ball at last into the hole, And though my niblick blade was hot, 'Twas not as sultry as my soul. THIRD HOLE A corking drive—a mashie pitch That sailed upon its way serene, That cleared each guarding trap and ditch And landed lightly on the green. My sagging heart forgot its blight— Forgotten now each bitter curse; And then, with easy par in sight, I took four putts and felt still worse. FOURTH HOLE I soaked the next one straight and true, And then—oh, ancient alibi !— I bade all joy a last adieu— My ball had found a cuppy lie! I tore my hair and wept aloud, When I had flubbed, depressed and sore; And then, a blighted wretch and cowed, I marked eight more against my score. THE OTHER FOURTEEN I made my way from bad to worse; I sliced and foozled, hooked and topped, Until at last, with bitter curse, Upon the final green I flopped. And writhing there, a broken thing, - My stark soul echoed one last ery— “Oh, Death, where is thy bitter sting? Oh, Grave, where is thy victory?”’ And this we label sport and fun, When other grinding work is done! And this we go to with a zest, For recreation and a rest! “Tired business man’’—a phrase inspired ! My word! No wonder he is tired! “FRANK > GODWIN- comicbooks.com