They all play golf.
All my friends play golf.
The whole world, it seems, plays golf.

I met a man at a funeral
who started to tell me,
shot by shot,
hole by hole,
a round he had played that morning.

At the third hole
I stopped him.
‘Do you honestly expect me to stand here,’
I said, ‘and listen to you telling me,
shot by shot,
hole, by hole,
a round of golf
you played this morning,
and this poor man
stone dead in his coffin,
his widow distraught,
and his family not knowing
which end of them is up?

At a party
a friend of mine
bored the wits out of my wife
explaining to her in detail
how after thirty years
of a perfect swing,
it had gone off;
like milk in hot weather.
He was back with the ‘pro’
to have his swing corrected.

Have they no imagination?
Have they no idea
how talking golf
bores the wits out of

How would they like it
if a stamp collector
cornered them in
a one way conversation
about how he tracked down
a penny black,
bought it at the right price
and rescued it for posterity
by expertly steaming it off
a damaged envelope?

I have no objection whatever
to people playing golf,
so long as,
like skeletons in the cupboard,
they keep it to themselves.
If they must,
they can bore the wits out of each other.

Two thirds of the world is starving.
There are wars everywhere,
and what, it seems,
does everyone do?
Play golf!

Golfers don’t seem interested to discuss
whether there’s a God or not,
or whether evolution
really was the best idea ever.
All they want to do
is play golf.
Golf, golf, bloody golf.

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