A Tune In Troon
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The hero of this poem had practised daily to achieve perfection like the gunslingers of the Old West. After all, he was in Troon to make a killing!
A Tune in Troon
In the Scottish village of Troon
To the lilt of a Western tune,
A man dressed in black
With the sun at his back
Created the scene from High Noon.
A man mysterious and cool,
A man who was nobody's fool,
Mirror shades hid his eyes
And were just a disguise
Which he wore every day as a rule.
They covered the view of his soul
While he continued his stroll,
Past the church and the Minister
Who thought him quite sinister
And best to avoid on the whole.
From the pub came sounds of a tune,
The familiar lilt of High Noon
So he drank down his Carling,
Embraced his own darling,
Then faced his opponent in Troon.
By seven o'clock it was done,
He'd acted his part and he'd won,
The game had been played
And still wearing his shades
He said that the golf had been fun.
But the men of Shane or High Noon
Weren't the sort to be found in Troon,
No golf clubs, no fun
And when all's said and done,
Mirror shades were only .....
..... invented in the nineteen-sixties
Copyright © Elisabeth Sheaffer | Year Posted 2016
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