Collection:
The Omen Collection
Give No Quarter
On fairway's edge, the shadows creep,
No quarter here, where traps lay deep.
With every swing, the winds conspire,
The green, a map, the course, a pyre.
Cutlass raised, the strike is clear,
Billows quiet, soft echoes hear.
Horizon looms, distance flight,
Strike of iron, a pirate's night.
Victory's taste, a fleeting breeze,
On haunted greens, beneath the trees.
On haunted greens, beneath the trees.