By Banjo Mo’
THERE was movement down in Barwon, for the word had passed around
That the colts from Moe Norman had come to play,
To win the prized golf trophy — for it weighed a thousand pound,
So all the hacks had gathered for the fray.
All the tried and tested golfers from the law firms near and far
Had mustered with the others for the night,
For these golfers love hard drinking, where the wild bush pigdogs are,
And The Deano sniffs the beaver with delight.
There was Regan, who made his pile when friends would buy a Pug,
The smooth man with his hair a slick Rogaine;
But few could e’er outdrive him when his blood was fairly up—
His ball would fly the fairways sweet terrain.
And Matty of the Overgrow came down as he had planned,
No better turfman ever played the game;
For never green could throw him with his putter in his hand,
And his knowledge of the cooch was stuff of fame.
And one was there, Pommie Mark, who recent won some Tests,
The man they called The Law was highly prized,
With a touch of Man United—three parts Liverpool at least—
And such as by opponents quite despised.
And Faz – hard, ‘n’ tough and wiry—just the sort that won’t say die—
There was courage in his quick impatient swing;
And he bore the badge of greatness, and the other golfers’ ire,
With his endless stream of bitches and his bling.
If feeling sick and seedy, one might doubt his power to stay,
But as Deano said, “This horse will never die
After drinking 16 gallon—lad, I’ll make it on the day,
You won’t find me collapse like Mummify.”
And Tim returned this year —Regan’s law recruit and friend —
“I think we ought to let him come,” Reegs said;
“I warrant he won’t win it, he won’t be there at the end,
For both his golf and he are Queensland bred.”
And one hails from Scotty River, up by Edinburgh’s side,
Where the sand is twice as deep and twice as tough,
A Hamish drive strikes firelight and the same strikes from his eye,
And women queue to see him in the buff.
And joining in McConnell, bringing extra Celtic flair,
He could be good, or bad, or in-between;
There have been full many golfers since the first ball in the air,
Could it be he is the best that’s ever been?
And Hayden Wall — they found the him lain a big samosa dump —
Oft raced away towards the leaders spot,
So the H-Train gave his orders, “Boys, Ill go you from the jump,
For ev’ry six you have I’ll take 5 shots”.
And, Robbo, he could steer them, steer them left and steer them right.
Drive boldly, and would never fear the pond,
He‘d stay clear of the bogies, and keep birdies firm in sight,
No matter if brunette or if they’re blonde
And Dame Lee came to show them—he was driving at the green
Where the best and boldest drivers take their aim,
He would swing his number one wood, and he’d make the ranges ring
Albatrosses on the par fives was his game.
Then they halted for a moment, while Jez swung his dreaded lash,
the Man from Warrnambool could win he knew,
His club charged beneath the golf ball with a sharp and sudden dash,
But off into the mountain scrub it flew.
Then fast did Kevin follow, where the gorges deep and black
Resounded to the thunder of his ball,
And he oft would hit the group ahead, and they fiercely answered back
“You could at least have bloody called out ‘Fore’.”
And upward, ever upward, the wild Roddy held his way,
Sure that he could crack it for a win
But his partner muttered fiercely, “We may bid the Moe good day,
And you sure won’t win the Closest to the Pin.”
When he reached the golfing summit, even Alex took a pull
(A sight to make the boldest hold their breath)
The Queenslander learned quickly, that to win the Moe was cool
And guaranteed to give you extra length.
But the Man from Yarra River, not afraid to lend some voice,
Strutted as he entered the club-house,
And Gav warned the others present, with a touch of the rejoice
“I’m here to tell you that my game is freaking grouse”.
So they sent their golf balls flying, but The Deano kept his head,
He cleared the fallen rabble in his stride,
While the Man from Warrnambool never thought the contest dead —
And Tim obliged by bringing home the side
Through the weedy grass and saplings, on the rough and broken ground
Of the 13th Beach that played its final Moe;
The team never threw the towel in and landed safe and sound,
While the 16 gallon drinker shared the show.
Then back among the hackers stood a sad and sorry bunch,
All looking at their scorecards, staring mute,
Only Dame won something – sent one screaming like a Munch –
For the rest it was a year of destitute.
They had all lost it for a moment, at some point in their rounds
In the grasses, in the trees and in the sand
Sure they battled on in earnest – their wild dreams still abound –
But all in all a case of best laid plans.
And somewhere from Canada, to the north of USA
The legend and the master sits on high,
Where the view is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze
Moe watches the proceedings with a smile,
And where throughout Victoria the hackers take their game
From the Murray, to Corio or to Rye,
The men of The Moe Norman play in honour of his name,
And the Great Man sheds a tear that trickles pride.
The Moe Norman Invitational 