His round began with a badly hooked drive.
His ball flew deep into the thick left-side
rough; not what happened in his dream the night
before. A long search, then “Found it,” he lied
and told his caddy that his whole day’s wage
depended on saying nothing. He saved
par at the first with a ten foot putt, made
against the odds. At the next tee the face
of his club sliced his ball. He had to nurse
his pride when his shot found sand, as he had in church
all those years ago. “Oh well, it could be worse,”
he sighed. “I can afford to lose the purse
today.” The caddies said, when they came back,
“It’s never good to see golf played like that.”
© 2014 A B Maude
Over at dVerse I’ve (re)introduced a Pub game invented in 17th century France It’s called bout rimés and you can read the article I prepared about it here. The above poem is just a bit of fun using the series of rhyming words that I challenged the dVerse community to use in their poems today. Why not head over there to see what other poets have made of this? Perhaps you could try it yourself?