Tuesday, August 7, 2007

Round of Golf

There’d never been a better round of golf in all existence,
I hit each ball with perfect weight and also perfect distance.
The first holes were impeccable; I skirted all the dangers,
And, by the seventh, I was being cheered on by several strangers.

The next few holes were tricky, but I got through them in par,
And at the short eleventh, I had my best hole by far.
I hit the ball so perfectly, right down the straight and narrow,
Majestically, it sailed straight in the hole, just like an arrow.

Birdie followed birdie, I was hitting every green,
A man remarked it was the greatest round he’d ever seen.
Someone contradicted him, but that, I feel, was mean,
I was fourteen under par as I walked slowly to eighteen.

Disaster! Oh, disaster! My first shot was out of bounds,
And in the crowd, somebody said I’d lost them twenty pounds.
Ten and twelve and fourteen shots, and each time I would fail,
As my ball kept on rebounding off the little windmill’s sail.

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