Hate at Hole Eight

the golden beams of sun swoop down
    and sweetly kiss each leaf
      the autumn breeze whispers gently
        i stare in disbelief

my golf club firm and cold lies still
    on the soft grass of Hole Eight
      the boys are taking their sweet time
        as we wait…and wait…and wait

the boys behind us laugh and shout
    “Golf’s a gentleman’s game”
      they claim there’s no more respect for it
        and we’re the ones to blame

cold darkness falls when clocks strike six
    the worst golf weather of all
      see, the boy’s team has the long spring days
        and we were left with fall

i’m but a novice of this strange sport
    and it really frustrates me
      the boys watch like hawks as I concentrate
        one sneezes and I hit a tree

their coach laughs along with words of scorn
    “Move along, real players are here,”
      my anger stays buried deep inside
      they won’t get benefit of a tear

let them chuckle at my skirt and curls
    let my pink golf ball make them shutter
      igniting my desire to learn even more
        a suffragette armed with a putter

but I stand firm my ground silently
    as they mock me at Hole Eight
      and to think that the proud game of gentlemen
        could now be filled with their hate