"In what furnace was thy brain?"

The tiger has sunk back deep into his lair.

Tiger. Handsome, athletic, a champion. Rich beyond anyone's wildest dreams. Could what I heard be right? Nike alone pays him $30 million a year for endorsements? ...and all the ballcaps he can wear? Whew. A guy like that, traveling all the time, winning tournament after tournament, living in hotels, meeting beautiful women who are throwing themselves at him. What man could resist? At the same time the wife and kids are home. A man would feel safe, powerful, immortal, nothing could touch him.

Oops.

Like several other high profile men this year Tiger Woods has, in the immortal words of my old first sergeant, "stepped on his dick." He's decided to go low profile on the whole affair, which leads one to ask the question, if one or two women have come forward to say they had affairs with him, how many women are there who haven't as yet said anything?

This story may be around for a while. Tiger will come back from it, I'm sure of that. He hasn't won all those tournaments by being timid. He will figure out how to answer the charges and his true fans will stick by him, his detractors will have their fun. In the end he'll still be Tiger, winning a boatload of trophies and millions of dollars. He takes his caddy with him on the golf course. What I suggest is that while traveling and going out in the evening he take a lawyer along with him. If he can't resist temptation, then any affairs should be conducted only after the partner has signed a non-disclosure agreement.

The Tyger (from Songs Of Experience)

By William Blake (1794)

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare sieze the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art.
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?