Golf
Sticks bewitched by fairies’ play;
They often lead my ball astray;
The woods much easier for to find;
Than grand fairways of greenery fine;
Of this there can be no doubt;
Golf balls are related to trout;
For every time I play a round,
Into the water my ball is bound.
Maybe it’s bass or perch they seek;
Either way they find the drink;
Sand on a beach, now that is fine;
But in a fairway, is a crime;
It cannot be my skills are amiss;
For many other’s hit shots like this;
I think I know who to blame;
The Scot’s invented this blessed game.
Copyright © Kenneth Cheney | Year Posted 2020
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