He labored over this golf game like a mother hen. Couldn’t remember if he ever disliked the game. Couldn’t remember when.
He’d often play, ‘til the hour of ten
Then to his wife, an excuse, he’d have to lend.
He was caught in golf’s ‘headlights’ like a ‘doe’! About to be ‘run over’. To take direct the blow. His wife pleaded to him for balance. Wanted him to know That his obsession to his home social life low.
But he felt he should play more, NOT less. This to her he confessed.
And pushed his ‘case’…continued to press Until his face, with cole slaw, she decided to dress.
His clubs had to be the best. He wouldn’t but cheap. To hit those ‘birdies’, he wanted to hear, “PEEP!” His wife felt he’d become such a creep
When in his golf bag, he wanted to SLEEP!
”Golf-on-the-brain,” must be fully etched
It’s what she imagined. (Wasn’t much of a stretch). If she threw a club, he would go ‘fetch’
”It’s ALL he thinks about!…That miserable wretch!”