He was a monster on the green,
With drooping, pale-pink pants,
Butt-puckered in his putting stance,
He played to win, and he played mean.
Each shot took minutes to line up,
And every one turned out the same.
When he missed, he placed the blame
On ill-kept turf or a faulty cup.
At the 18th hole, the game was tied.
Could he win, or would he lose?
In the end, it was she who’d choose
To sink her shot, or send it wide.
For, despite all his braggadocio,
He couldn’t even be a putt-putt pro.
(c) 2019, by Hannah Six
Image: Alan Levine/Flickr (CC BY 2.0)
No comments:
Post a Comment