He couldn’t help but love the ‘golfer’s manner’. The decorum, the dignity, the ‘glitz, the glamour’ Not to mention, he always came home ‘tanner’ (But not on the face…the ‘golfer’s banner’).
Over his performance afterwards, he’d always mull To note his weaknesses. (The holes in the hull). At moronic mistakes, he’d cry like a gull
It hurt to the core. (Like a tooth being pulled)!
They were joined at the hip. (Golf was his kin) But many times it dumped him in the ‘bin’.
The ‘correction’ from the game, often ‘chaffed his skin He felt he needed the ‘oil of sympathy’. (About an hin!)
”Saturday! At last! A fine ‘golf-morn’!!”
”Look out world! Another golf genius is born!”
He had to be his biggest fan. (Had to blow his horn) This game is so competitive. (“You’ve got to ‘pop your own corn!”)
Each putt of the ball, he sought to conquer
BEFORE each putt of the ball, he’d long ponder Unless interrupted, he’d go on longer
Making his competitors FIERCLY filled with ‘wonder’