Indoor Golf

It’s time to look the clubs out from the cupboard in the room
Clean away the cobwebs and forget of last year’s gloom
Red specks of rust remind me of a time so long ago
When hands were steady as a rock and handicap was low

Inside the zipped compartment of my trusty Titleist bag
A crumpled purple Pringle and a flattened Snicker bar
My glove is hard and crusty, my pencil has no point
My trolley squeaks and whinges with its old arthritic joints

My practise swing is wobbly but I’ve found my lucky ball
Then watch in pain and disbelief as it rebounds up the hall
It knocks three paintings from the wall, two mirrors lie there smashed
And tweetie-birdies circle o’er the bump where I’ve been bashed

Confused and dazed but still not fazed I tee-up once again
And hit the Maxfli sweetly through the kitchen window pane
Outside I find the ball in rough and breathe a heavy sigh
Then nudge it with my leather wedge to get a preferred lie

I grip the club like Vardon and chip through the open door
Then through the gaps in fingers watch it scratch the polished floor
It runs on rather nicely until it hits my faithful mutt
Who looks at me forlornly as I prepare to sink the putt

But my Masters dream is over when I hear the missus scream
Reminding me I’ll never make the Europe Ryder team
I rub my eyes and realise two more ambitions have just died
So now you’ll find my irons in the local classifieds