The hacker sets out in deep concentration,
But golf shots soon turn to excavation.
Staring glumly at cavernous divots,
No textbook technique, but reverse pivots-
They endure this torment for eighteen holes,
Feel guilty for all the evicted moles.
Into the clubhouse to glance at the card,
Which has been strangely, by high numbers marred.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This is really cool. I am no fool. I like the way you speak. All tho, your pen kind of reeks. I don’t care for language, I don’t care for soul. Soon I will be, buried in a hole.