Six scythes sigh citing sight’s slight size.
Contemporaneously, the clown chief juggles
balls in the oversize pockets of golf pantaloons.
His jesters, the caddies, the sick secret service,
all watch in astonishment balls fly all over.
Every drive is a missile. Every iron is a bomb.
The holes in this course seem bigger.
They were made by random mortar fire.
Hole nine takes thirteen putts. No fairways.
Nineteenth is sprite and cheese fries. Hot sauce.
He signs scorecards for the crowd. A perfect 18.
Then into the bulletproof cart and onto the nearest Y.