I once met a pro
Whose tennis went so:
He made it look so very casual.
He lobbed over the left
But aimed to the right
While looking directly straight at you.
His racquet was strung
Tho’ on the wall hung
With gutt from the neighborhood cat.
He played with finesse
In a self-tailored dress
And swung at the ball with a bat.
The lockerroom chatter
Reduced to a patter
When scores of his match were revealed.
Something to do
With a goose egg or two
And the club’s number one singles seed.
His forehand he swung
Although with a lunge
Could pass you off either side.
Its bounces would spin
And always land in;
We wished that they soon would go wide.
His serve was a smash
Tho’ not done with class
As your “by-the-book” form should be seen.
He sliced down the middle,
Chewed tobacco a little,
And blew his nose twice in between.
His socks from Adidas
Would always defeat us
With respect to the times they were worn.
His sneakers as well
Gave off quite a smell
Every night, afternoon and each morn.
