Crouching Tiger Woods

Proud Tiger’s lie in the hoary rough
Beneath Augusta’s august boughs
To the mortal eye would bring a tear
Yet the golfing god would acres tear
Until the lie became a slough
And if the slough be not enough
A lake would he plow up and swear
And toss his club, his face a rouge!
His reputation back to steer
To the lie where it lay
Not half so deep,
So beyond repair.