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Speaking Golf

(I’m speaking golf
And you can’t stop me
I’m on the fourth hole
With my club around a tree)

It wasn’t my fault
And I didn’t mean for it to break
But when you’re flying towards the green
You shouldn’t end up in the lake

I’ve got a face like pudding
Collecting pieces of me baton
Can’t see the birds upon the wing
And that the sun has put his hat on.

‘Look Ronan’s got a birdie!’
Is friend Andy’s chirping ‘buck-up’
But I’m eighteen over par
and a hobbling moaning ‘+++ck-up’

I trudge along behind
as they saunter on in glory,
and mutter to the lord above,
“Happy now?!”
“How you must you deplore me?

Why must my tools be such ill fit
And balls so small and puny
Where others clip and sail serene
Why do you do this to me?”

I fat and thin and sway and lurch
And attempt pro-bought solutions;
Through gritted fists I’ll make this work
Come the day of revolutions.

As friends and sunshine fade
Behind dark veils of affliction,
I plot to make the bastards pay –
when ever-gone both Lurch and Sway
and gentlest hands caress the blade…
Of finest golfing diction.