The hero of this poem had practised daily to achieve perfection like the gunslingers of the Old West. After all, he was in Troon to make a killing!
A Tune in Troon In the Scottish village of Troon To the lilt of a Western tune, A man dressed in black With the sun at his back Created the scene from High Noon. A man mysterious and cool, A man who was nobody's fool, Mirror shades hid his eyes And were just a disguise Which he wore every day as a rule. They covered the view of his soul While he continued his stroll, Past the church and the Minister Who thought him quite sinister And best to avoid on the whole. From the pub came sounds of a tune, The familiar lilt of High Noon So he drank down his Carling, Embraced his own darling, Then faced his opponent in Troon. By seven o'clock it was done, He'd acted his part and he'd won, The game had been played And still wearing his shades He said that the golf had been fun. But the men of Shane or High Noon Weren't the sort to be found in Troon, No golf clubs, no fun And when all's said and done, Mirror shades were only ..... ..... invented in the nineteen-sixties
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