I.
Too low, too base, too nothingful
To treat with even minimal respect--
Egregious in his faults and lob-outs,
Nettings, misses, mis-hits inane excuses,
Next-court placements, fence-denting drives,
And volleys all awry,
With grunt and grimace and groan:
He is our club's perennial pest hacker.
II.
Net-misplayer, service dinker, wild-slapping
terror,
Master of the much-mishandled racquet,
He, the pro of the all perfect error,
The never-to-be-equaled teacher to teach:
The never-do's, the always-avoids, the no-no's;
The how-to-lose's, the muff, the blunder--
All by his own superb example--
The no-man's land wonder.
III.
If he'd keep off the courts
If he'd sit on the side-lines;
If he'd give up tennis, take up golf;
Or sit at the bar, or go off to war;
Or go off with some dame...
Any of these would be good for the game.
IV.
We have to accept, however inept,
His antics, junk racquet, his loud colored jacket,
His mouth, just as loud, they re all in the club.
He challenges us whenever we meet him.
We don't want to forfeit, and here is the rub:
There's never a one of us
That ever can beat him.
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