Thank you for the birthday golf balls, Adam and Scarlett.

Sorry they are all lost!

 

Ripped away from their cardboard womb,

Shimmering, naked, on the kitchen table,

Pristine, proud, and blindingly new,

They shake off their naïve foetal slumber,

Rolling off their shiny wooden green,

Onto the rough of the kitchen floor.

 

Like soldiers from the First World War,

Quickly ensuring that their pluck is seen,

Soon savagely depleted in their number,

Where, sadly, the many became the few:

The lost, the crippled, the scuffed and disabled.

Not many shots before their golf ball tomb.