Judge — April 21, 1923 — page 9: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Scooty Blear by Charles W. Myers ays he n pullub, HH” PLAYER wha ver gets a break in gawf is * * * In this safety first, safety razor age th’ maist o° us find it dull aneuch. + «+ «@ Mony a gude citizen hae been hood- winked in joinin th’ Ku Klux Klan. * * «* A bilwig is a gawfer wha explains he was tryin’ oot something new aifter missin’ a shot. + * «* In this era o° bootleg whusky it’s nae anly th’ diver wha is frequently doun in th’ depths. * * Th’ gawfer wha wishes tae improve his game yet willna tak’ th’ time tae practice reminds me o’ th’ case 0” th’ way- ward youth wha was reprimanded by his mither for gamblin’. “My son,” she said, “is time lost in playin’ carc “Yes, mither, atween deals,” he replied. * * * there muckle Mony Congressmen hae foun’ that thir cloak room is nae a gude place ta hide thir hypocrisy. And now its the middle of April and you haven't busted a hundred yet. Don’t jump in the water hazard. Think of that fellow that told you he wasn’t going to take up the game until he was older and had more leisure. Golf a la Coué by Mrs M. E. Nichols Y GAME is poor, yet I am sure T have the golfer complex; I dream of greens with emerald sheens And nothing can my calm vex. For now I sing, “Away I flin; All dingy facts that fetter.” And every day, in every ¥ I feel I'm playing better. ays When par is four, and six my score, I call it—three—or nearly, My stick, not I, sends balls awry, ‘And now I see it clearly, If Ido “dub,” I “drat” my club. (It’s spirit counts, not letter.) And every day, in every way, I'm sure I'm playing better. It once seemed tough to “slice” to rough, But now I can ignore it; And water fails to »ble tales, Because I don’t explore it. If “birds” are owls, and “eagles” fowls, Still I'm no vain regretter, And every day, in every way, I know I’m playing better. Sat Crawford—Niblick says that his wife is a real helpmate. Crabshaw—I understand that she never lets him oversleep on a Sunday when he has a golf game on hand. Ballades of a Dub by A. N.C. Fowler I Cannot Golf Till Volstead Quits. F LATE my skill has gone astray, I've noticed that my pep will fade When there’s a shot quite hard to play And that I'm easily dismay If am trapped. Not thus afraid Was I in those glad days of Schlitz When bock beer signs were then dis- played— I cannot golf till Volstead quits. The law says that we must obey All statutes framed to be obe And that is that, but how allay A thirst at ni in the shade With wholly guileless lemonade When you desire in your mitts ‘The stuff wherein the lawless trade? T cannot golf till Volstead quit If we could but restore the ¢ Of waiters in white coats arr: Who'd bring you anything you say Of draughts whose kick had not been made Quite harmless by reform’s tirade, Why, then I'd knock this game to bits, But now I cannot make the grade— 1 cannot golf till Volstead quits. L No longer is my th’rst an aid But in my thorax dryly sits And vaunts its arid gascon: I cannot golf till Volstead qui sat Dormie Putt by P. Ramsbottom Envot TAND STILL, stirs; there's the place; stand still. How fearful And di ‘tis to cast one’s eyes along! The bugs and ants that tread the midway sod Show scarce less gross than camels; half way there Struts ‘one that scatters earthquakes; dreadful trade! Methinks, he seems much bigger than a whale. The butterflies that t upon the ball Appear like albatrosses; and yon worm A leviathan; his head, a sphinx To stare the putt awry. The murmuring toad That in yon neighb’ring idle pool doth jazz Cannot be quelled by oaths more; Lest my club turn, and the deficient poise Slice it away headlong. O you mighty gods, These bugs I do denounce, and in your sights Shake patiently my putter, but not fall 0 quarrel with your great opposeless wills, Go farther off. you! Don’t shake miracle. T'll say no Stand out of line. Hear, the flag—That putt's a * * Good Lord! What madness rules in brain- sick men!—Caddie. comicbooks.com