Gorse Buds

 

The day was hot, the balls were white;
We slammed them round with main and might;
Cared not a whit for grazing sheep
As homing golf-ball made them leap.

My partner was in sorry pass,
Kept finding little blades of grass:
And I, though conscious of my goal,
Found trouble sinking ball in hole.

We drove and pulled, we drove and sliced,
We topped and dug, our words were spiced.
No mashie shot would sail aloft
But crawled along like something soft.

The day was hot, each lost a ball.
Then someone came, peeped over wall,
And cried, “Hi, listen! Ain’t that sweet?
“Gorse buds are popping in this heat!”

We with a common purpose strode
Towards her. She fled down the road;
Nor stayed to see what might occur,
Not liking how we looked at her.

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