What Are Golfers Not Telling Us

There’s a part of me that say’s I’m jealous Another thinks my golfing friends just zealous, Whilst I crave fresh air and healthy motion They’re busy slathering on the lotion Before they mount some little cart That with intent they simply point to dart At breakneck speed from hole to hole The putting of that little ball the goal. Then there’s the clubs, that myriad bunch The choice of which for them the crunch, To make the shot or fail once more Blaming each for that bad score. Tortured, ruffled, discontent, They soon repair to that drinks tent To then replay the whole long game Masterful excuses quickly turning lame. But here’s the crunch and my dilemma The doubt that heightens my antenna, What are they hiding, sharing not a bit Of why such torture never makes them quit, Instead they plan and scheme each waking hour For that free day the calendar they scour, When they once more may hold that special club With surging will some dainty green to stub.