Treasure Island

Christopher Byrd Hickman

(September 10,1993 / Chestertown, Maryland)

Bad Round of Golf


Dear bad round
Why do you spin my head wright round
Leaving me with a frumpy frown
Throwing clubs all over the ground

Every time I leave the golf course
And I can’t identify the problem in my game or the source
I feel like causing destruction like an Icelandic Norse
Rain down missiles like the United States Air Force

When I sit down and remember where I went wrong
I can’t believe on the par three with water over the back, I went long
And when I missed that putt on the left side
My eyes opened up wide
Struggled, tussled, and tried
To not let anyone know that like a little baby I cried
And a little part of my patience died

And when on the par 5 I hit it in the water
Seeing my ball swim in the lake with a otter
I felt my temperature slowly start getting a little hotter
And making want to be like Harry Potter
Go back to my Hogwarts my Alma Matter
And beat the hell out of Voldamorts Daughter

While I’m watching other players making two’s and three’s
I’m over across the fairway behind a couple of tree’s
Trying to factor in the left to right breeze
While crouching down under a branch on my knees

And before I even begin to swing or stroke
I know my game that day is one big joke
So seeing water down the right, I tense up and choke
Helplessly watching the ball end up behind another great oak
And next thing ya know, another club is broke

After the round, I throw my clubs in the back of the car
Radiating frustration like a shinning solar system star
So to get me away from there or here
I simply pull out my iphone, and put plugs in my ear

So trying not to go crazy like the wild west
And realizing I’ve failed todays brutal test
I manage to get up, dust the dirt off my chest
And continue my life long golf journey’s quest

Submitted: Tuesday, September 03, 2013
Edited: Tuesday, September 03, 2013

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