Out of the rough that covers me,
hacking through trees hole after hole.
I curse whatever golfing gods may be
For my all too easily conquered soul.
In the fell clutch of an awkward stance,
I have time and again shanked and yelled “Fore” out loud.
But after a liquid lunch I’m square on 18, in with a chance;
Although my head is fuzzy, I’m determined to do Cinque Ports proud.
The links it seems becomes a place of wrath and tears,
the fairway narrow and the green so very, very far.
Yet then I find solace to suppress my fears:
just a few more hacks and I’ll be safely propping up the bar.
It matters not that this putt to win’s not straight,
Nor how small in appearance has become the hole.
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.
