A balmy breeze, a hint of spring
    Golfers all prepare to swing
    And they’ll persist ‘til late in fall
    When autumn leaves will shroud the ball

    Though I admit to swings I flub
    I treasure each and every club
    I love to hit the ball and shout
    "Fore" though there’s no shred of doubt
    That those in front have naught to fear
    From any shot I try to steer

    And when I step upon the green
    I act like all the pros I’ve seen
    I stoop and squint and calculate
    Then hit and trust to luck or fate

    And if perchance I make the cup
    I nonchalantly straighten up
    With much politeness step aside
    Whilst hoping all my shot had eyed

    Then as the sun begins to fade
    And when the 18th hole’s been played
    We doff the weary golfer’s role
    To liven up the 19th hole!

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