"Four" he shouts, like he knows what he's doing
He shapes up again, to show he's not fooling
he has their attention, which he intends to keep
After all, he's a golfer, awake, not asleep
The green lies ahead, he has picked his spot
Sure there;s nothing to it, at least not a lot
He has watched the tele, seen how it's done
No need to worry, head covered from the sun
Slow backswing, follow through, turning into it as well
He took some lessons, it will turn out swell
Let them watch his form, a golfer, that's true
He has got it all and he knows it too
With the swish of his club, showing all his gall
But he lifted his head and missed the ball
The language he sputtered, would alarm the Constabulary
Yet he learned from this.....with an increased Vocabulary
Michael Christopher Daly
2005
Short stories and poetry about growing up in Limerick, Ireland written by Lelia Street native Michael C. Daly now living in New York
Monday, February 11, 2008
The Golfer
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