Hot Golf

A hot summer’s day, there’s danger outside,

Oppressive and thick, and nowhere to hide,

You try to stay cool, you drink quite a lot,

Wrap a towel ’round your neck with a cold water spot.

You’ve played fifteen holes, your score’s not too bad,

You’ve three holes to go, but the sun is so mad,

That it burns at your skin and makes you feel dizzy.

Can you play ’til the end? Can you not throw a tizzy?

You’ve lost all your strength, you’re drives come up short,

Your chips get much longer. Is this really a sport?

It’s supposed to be fun, with your friends on the links,

But this is just torture. Hot golf really stinks.


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