Poem 144 of 230:  LINGOLF

(TUNE - IN THE KEY OF B-FLAT MAJOR:

Eb2 G1 G2 G2 A1 A2
A2 Bb2 c3 c1 c2 Bb2
Eb2 F2 G2 A2 A2 A2
F2 A3 Bb2 G3 G2 G3)

Your honour, Your Honour.
    Watch out - he’s a burglar.
I’m to school on your putt.
    That’s one heck of a cut!

It’s my bread and butter -
    A left-to-right cutter.
That’s where elephants die.
    That’s a grave - not a lie.

I’m in the old plum-duff;
    Tough - I’m on the cut-stuff.
The hooks with my driver,
    And fades with my putter.

There’s a goalie in there.
    Trees are some nine-tenths air.
I have a soldier’s plight -
    Always left, right, left, right.

Everything was fine -
    Apart from weight and line.
It took a member’s bounce.
    A rare bird to announce.

An unlucky horseshoe.
    Had a look - liked the view.
Poetry in motion.
    Read with blind devotion.

He’s just hit a cracker.
    I’m only a hacker.
I wish I’d missed the well.
    A fried-egg where it fell.

A crop of a divot.
    It was speed that killed it.
Your wedges land so neat -
    Butterflies with sore feet.

Like pitching in pudding.
    Never up, never in.
Drive for show/putt for dough.
    Can’t beat bad luck, you know.

He’s just missed a gimme.
    That, then, would be dormy.
It went in the side-door.
    A Bradman of a score.

Just spoiled a good walk.
    Can’t play, but can he talk!
'Twas daylight robbery; 
    Not “how” but “how many.”

The nineteenth’s not too far -
Have a jar at the bar..?

(Last two lines of tune.)

(C) David Franks 2003
From http://walkaboutsverse.blogspot.com