Intimations On Fairway Play Poem by Francie Lynch

I'd rather hit the links today,
And take an eight on five;
Blame the wind or shift of weight,
Than shovel out my drive.

I'd rather search under trees,
'Neath twigs and leaves, yes, water;
Or curse the squirrel that thought my ball
Was food for winter fodder.

I'd rather have a downward lie
On pock-marked naked ground;
Than sitting watching Graham DeLaet
Get it up and down.

I'd rather have a green fringe putt
That lines up with goose droppings;
Or see a fine three-footer lip
Than hear the snow plough coming.

I'd rather shoot a ninety-nine,
And pay for rounds of ale;
Than garrison myself at home
From snow and sleet and hail.

I'd rather shank, or stub my dick,
Yes, get a double bogie;
Or miss a hole-in-one by inches,
And put up with Hobe's stogie.

I'd rather see Butt make his putt,
And card a seventy-two;
But then again such a score
Would need outside review.

I'd rather play with Wilcox too..
Okay... alright... that's not quite true.

Yet still I languish near my fire
And watch the Pros play golf
At Pebble Beach or somewhere warm,
I wish they'd all piss off.