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Little Sean, with plus fours on
Stands at the 18th green.
If he can shoot a par he'll win
The biggest cup he's ever seen.
Oh how little Sean, with plus fours on
Would brag to his friend Gerry.
The girls would go out for hotdogs
And little Sean would be so merry.
With a nervous glance, Sean takes up his stance
For the trees the ball is heading
And little Sean, with plus fours on
Yells out, "Stall the wedding!"
Now he's on the green, imagine the scene
All he needs is a two foot putt.
But he feels the dreaded golfer's twitch
And the heartburn in his gut.
Sean yells to his caddie, a nice wee laddie
"Stand back, I'm going to sink her!"
The ball goes flying past the hole
Wee Sean has played a stinker.
Second again, oh God the pain
Sean snaps in two his putter
And curses like a sailor
As his dreams go down the gutter.
"Hard luck Sean," says wee Joe Bawn
Who resides in Derry City.
"Do you want my toe?" says Sean to Joe
"I don't want your friggin' pity."
At the 19th hole, Sean can not thoal
The winner's presentation
So he heads for the door, with an angry roar
For some al fresco meditation.
Wee Sean sees the car of Willie Barr
Who snatched the cup of victory
Sean  scratches Willie's Mercedes Benz
With the tip of his door key.
As he cycles home, with trophies none
He wonders what's for tea
And he knows he'll never be a bride
A bridesmaid, he'll always be.
Then little Sean, with plus fours on
Runs the bike into a ditch
And the policeman duly noted down
" Officer! I suffer from golfer's-twitch!"
  (His case comes up next week) 



Copyright 2009 J P McMenamin