He awakes and bleary eyed,
Looks not at his wife by his side.
He cares not today for morning cuddles,
Only that the greens should be free of puddles.
Please God, he hopes it’s not raining.
All week on the carpet he’s been training,
Sinking putts by the score,
And chipping balls through the door.
No trouble today leaping out of bed,
Or clearing cobwebs from his head,
For today starts the week-end,
And the golf swing is surely on the mend.
No hoovering or washing dishes,
Just driving balls with elegant swishes,
Down manicured fairways far out of sight,
Scaring rabbits with his might!
Up and washed and ready to go,
A new set of clubs he’s anxious to show.
A confidant swing on the first tee,
But the effing ball goes straight up a tree.
His second ball finds a cussed ditch,
Lost ball, a bit of a hitch.
Upon the green in six at last,
His handicap is disappearing fast.
The wind gets up and begins to howl,
Upon his face a wicked scowl,
As swing and game fall apart,
He moves on with sinking heart.
When at last he hands in his score,
The shout goes up, a hundred and four!
What went wrong, me old sunshine?
I lost six balls on number nine.
Drinks all round I think old chap,
That really is a load of old crap!
Go on take the micky, why don’t you,
But next week, I’ll be laughing at you!