A timely puck stole an error tragic
From your infant crib and clinched your slant -
­You lost the sea, there lay your fate's logic -
­The fish, not the willow is the deviant ­-
Then were you menily borne to Albion
At Lords of the Marelybome, the grass
Grew hallowed with your print of soles maiden,
Every crease a sanctum, every toss
A hymn of graceful drive to leg and cover,
No macho mood bounces to blast your style,
Chaste with no let up in its ease of power.
Pace devils flop, you make your placid pile -
And kudos piles up for every nuance
While your willow sings in serene pleasance.