David Bilsborrow and Cheryl Bilsborrow

Saturday, 14 March 2009

Poem of the week

A solid ball a metal club is all you need to play the game of golf.
A lot of luck and natural ability does make the game seem easy,
but for the masses that partake this easy game many are often driven crazy
It is sold to many as a way of relaxation but lengthy spells in long grass can turn into frustration
Pimping trousers worn by many are a distance from their suited appearance
This escape from reality ensures that they can behave without their sanity
As a member of the club one can rub shoulders with duke and dame but back in civilian life a bank clerk they remain
Ladies rooms and Gentleman’s rooms segregate the sexes
Men drink and crack rude jokes, while ladies play bridge and talk of their domestics
For many to be Captain is a prize, an honour beyond their wildest dreams, for in reality they cannot shine so in the golf club they reign supreme
The power of captain or committee man can soon address their life’s gaping hole
They soon enforce their weekend powers to pounce upon the poor soul who dares to break the club’s sacred dress code

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