Golf Footle
The grass
alas
is shorn
like corn
the dew
eschews
forlorn
this morn
the crowd
avowed
the ball
and all
then groans
and moans
clubs thrown
are known.
Embued
and hued
the words
like swords
wrong swing
the sting
bad lie
too high
the squeeze
on knees
in pleas?
to seize
the gold
and hold
glory
story
though droll
their goal
control
cajole
that ball
to fall
or roll
in hole
August 22,2022
For Brian Strand's Premiere Choice Contest
FIRST PLACE TROPhy!
POEM OF THE WEEK!
Copyright © Ann Peck | Year Posted 2022
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