This day is call'd the feast of Christopher.
He that golfeth this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd,
And rouse him at the name of the MilF.
He that shall golf this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast nonMilFers,
And say 'To-morrow is Saint Christopher.'
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say 'These wounds I had when that douchebag hit into me on the fifth.'
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember, with advantages,
What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words-
The Comment Trolls, Stover and Bill,
Paul of Plymouth and Banaiaiaian, Stewart and Andee-
Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And the MilF shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered-
We few, we happy few, we band of MilFers;
For he to-day that golfs and drinks with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
And gentlemen in Minnesota now at work
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,
And hold their manhoods as cheap as Chad the Elder's whiles any speaks
That golfed with us upon Saint Christopher's day!