Ode To The Fanatical Golfer
He loved the smell of the fresh cut ‘green’,
But to him it proved such a fiend.
It’s favor to him, was always lean,
Despite it’s beauty, it could be so mean!
The point of golf?…To put the ball in the hole.
You do that with a ‘curved-end pole.’
But the path, (always guarded by a troll),
Or maybe yet, some ‘ticked-off mole’!
He was never any good in the traps.
In fact his ‘game’, would always ‘flap’!
But to others, it seemed to sit on their ‘lap’,
While he’s reduced to stomping his cap!
He’d read the ‘mags’ to take his golf game higher.
He wanted the best ball…best putter…best driver.
Often going to his wife to borrow ‘a fiver’,
She wouldn’t budge. (No matter how hard he tried
to ‘jive her’!)
To the links, early morning, he’d often travel.
Sometimes pajamas and bathrobe…his only apparel.
Unfortunately the knot, would often unravel,
After jumping up and down at a lucky roll, he’d marvel!
(Copyright Kevin D. Rolle 2007. All rights reserved.)