THE GOLFER / by Joseph Castorino


Every Saturday he’s at the first tee,

Swinging madly, the ball hits a big tree;

For five long hours he rips up the turf,

He treats his caddie as if he’s a serf;

Hooking and slicing all over the place,

A swinging corkscrew without any grace;

He wastes yet another day with his clubs,

Nothing but frustration with all his flubs;

He’s a golfer -- but why even bother?

His sad son needs to have a real father.