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.
