STOPPING WITH MY WOODS ON A SUNNY EVENING
(With apologies to Robert Frost.)
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in my suburb though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods strike a blow.
My little caddy must think it queer
To stop without a bunker near
Between the woods and man-made lake
The brightest evening of the year.
He gives the heavy bag a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of swinging clubs and lapping lake.
These woods are lovely and I weep
For I have promises to keep
And putts to sink before I sleep
And putts to sink before I sleep.
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