AN ODE TO ROBBIE MILLER
We’re gathered here, I’m sorry to say
Cos the Millers are off to the US of A,
From sunny Annandale it’s time to go
To zero degrees and five feet of snow.
For Syracuse is their destination far,
Behind them they’ll leave their beloved car,
A Classic Mazda, way before its time
A purring engine, quite refined.
Always parked in the first parking slot,
On Sunday morning, hot to trot.
For Robert doesn’t do things at a leisurely pace
His golf is a sprint not a long distance race.
But there’s more to Rob than meets the eye,
His love of dogs I’d never decry,
Until he suggested as on the Tee we did talk
He might bring them along for an early morning walk.
His smoking’s obscene but he just won’t desist,
Just another bad habit from a very long list,
His jokes are appalling but he just won’t stop
Repeating the worst from a very bad crop.
But now to golf his greatest pleasure,
For Rob this is not a thing of leisure,
His stats reveal he plays the game well
But stats can lie as the Smergs will tell.
If he hits from the 12th into the ditch
This shot is called a “Son of a bitch”
So are the three putts that he often scores
But my putting is great, he always implores.
In truth he hits long, though not often straight
But longer than Ken he’s keen to relate,
When he wins the long drive he calls home to Mum,
Saying I’ve just beaten your much older son.
We can’t leave the putting without telling the truth
A jagging slice developed in youth,
But my stats say I putt well, he pleads to be heard
Just goes to prove, his stats are absurd.
Fast play, long hitting, the impossible shot,
I can quite honestly say he’s got the lot,
He’s even tempered, good natured, full of fun,
Welcomes advice from everyone.
How he sandbags his handicap, I’ll never know,
Only in Majors does his true class show,
Three times a week at Killara he plays
Just warming up for his Northbridge days.
So now with his wife he’s about to elope,
After Susan’s finished organising the visit of the Pope,
But we’ll see him back I’m pleased to say,
Not too soon I can hear you all pray!
He’s left his clubs with old brother Ken
For he’ll be visiting now and again,
Each six weeks away he loses a shot,
So no more majors to add to his pot.
Let’s think of the future, the cold and the snow,
In upstate New York where the freezing winds blow,
Your golf will be fast from the greens to the tees,
For if you slow down your Titleists might freeze.
But enough, enough I hear you say,
We’re sorry to see you on your way.
For fifteen years we’ve enjoyed your banter,
Playing golf at a hell of a canter.
And Sue with her speeches at the annual golf dinner,
Alongside her husband, a serial sinner.
You’re one of us Rob, a Smerg, through and through,
And we’re going to miss you---for an hour or two.
So now I ask you to raise a glass,
To Rob for his golf and Sue for her class.
Friday 25 April 2008