Of Golf

Published in

The Poetry Club

1 min readJul 1, 2024

A Poem

A small feather ball with a stick I struck,
fetched it up high, and with a bit of luck
into a wee hole beneath a pole far afield.
Twice by nine holes, tis half a day’s truck.

A more delightful time I cannae recall
than when I strike and stalk the wee ball.
When hit true, an aphrodisiac it is
that doth possess, bewitch, and enthrall.

So forgive me now me lads and lassie,
I am off to work a wee bit wi me brassie.
But I’ll catch uptya bye-n’-bye at the pub
after practicin’ approaches wi me mashie.

If darkness comes, go to the glen and give a call.
I’ll likely be there cursin’ n searchin’ fur me ball.

I Wage My War Against Bigotry
With But A Pen And My Faculty