Golf Game

This was his plan: imitating their dance,

Massaging their myths, storming, by surprise,

Their sand trap of conspiracies and lies;

To step on, by default, the greatest stage

Which life or spite could plausibly advance.

Lost in their bazaar, his slight repertoire

Propelled him to a failure by slow rage,

Though in the end he rallied to make par

And saved what could be traded as his pride.

Holes remained intact, unspoiled by his act,

But no one would come near from either side.

They sipped their drinks; he swore not to react.

◄ Elvis Presley Boulevard 1994

September Ist, 1939. ►

Comments

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Stephen Gospage

Mon 4th Oct 2021 17:19

Thank you, Kelvin.

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Stephen Gospage

Sat 2nd Oct 2021 16:43

And also to Your Royal Poetess.

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Stephen Gospage

Thu 30th Sep 2021 17:13

Thanks to John, Robert, Stephen and Holden for liking this poem.

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