Following my recent “exploits” on the golf-course

Stiff as grandad’s old starched collars,

from doing 18-holes yesterday.

Was treated by a splendid friend,

who didn’t realise I couldn’t play –

Not well, anyway.


It all began rather desperately

lost ball after first tee-shot

Couldn’t gather my composure

Made a mess of all the lot –

Just lost the plot


I sliced, I shanked, I topped –

every bad stroke in the book

My long-suffering friend was

too embarrassed now to look

110+ shots I took


But back in the clubhouse

With a cheese & bacon bun

Plus a pint of Fosters lager

We reflected on the fun

And…I’d caught the sun


In the afternoon I suffered,

as my bunion gave me gyp

Swollen, big toe paralysed

Ice pack no great fillip

Kept me from my kip


Aching limbs, tortured pride

could it have been worse ?

Now I have the inanity

to put it into verse

– Oh where is my masseuse ?