How Hard Could Golfing Be?
In The Villages where fairways once gleamed,
There lived a fine course, or so it was deemed,
With greens trimmed so neatly, and bunkers so bright,
A golfer’s delight from morning till night.
The owner, they say, was a marvel to see,
Like a one-armed man riding a unicycle with glee,
On a high wire stretched thin o’er alligators below,
While juggling flaming chainsaws in a hurricane’s blow.
Yet somehow he managed with practiced command,
Each tee box and green shaped by his steady hand,
Though chaos surrounded his perilous art,
He kept every fairway a well-tended part.
But then came a committee, refined and genteel,
With cigars and brandy and leisurely zeal,
Who loved all their golfing, their stories and cheer,
Yet their gardens at home were a shambles, it’s clear.
They’d never run businesses, not even one,
Yet took up the task as though it were fun,
And where once a quarter might close now and then,
Half lie in silence again and again.
The greens grow uncertain, the bunkers despair,
The fairways grow patchy with thinning-out care,
And golfers now ponder with brows knit in plea,
“What next shall become of our golfing, you see?”
For if such a master could barely succeed,
Amid storms and sharp perils and desperate need,
What hope for a council that lounges with ease,
And governs like captains who’ve never sailed seas?
So here lies the riddle, both comic and grim,
As daylight grows short and the prospects grow dim,
What future awaits as conditions all flee?
And truly we wonder… how hard could it be?
Robin Edwards is a resident of the Village of Hadley.