Oh to be there the night thou fell from grace,
Thy true character exposed.
What aficionado might not have paid to see such a spectacle?
Like an angel of vengeance
Her crashing through thine darkened windows of deceit.
In flowing robes of white, attacking thy chariot as thou scrambled to flee--
Her only weapon, the clubs once used to build thy kingdom.
Then, in the wee hours, before the dark turned to dawn,
Light shedding on thy reputation, once impeccably clean,
Thou wast forever dented and tarnished, never to be repaired.
Yes, for one so adept at reading the greens and fairways of life,
It became evident that this time,
Thy errant play would be thine end.
And so it is with nary an ounce of pity in my voice
May thou shootest twenty over,
Never to wear the coveted green jacket again.