The great unwashed public is probably unaware that April is national poetry month. As cultural liaison officer, I feel it is my duty to keep the membership informed and classy. I sat hunched over, sipping tequila with lime, pondering where my golf game went this time. A man of my ability just couldn't shoot such a high score, where was the justice, for god's sake, an eighty four. The sharks began to circle with a zest and zeal, they swam around me awaiting the green peel. Half heartedly I paid them one and all, the hacks, the baggers, the short and the tall. I stared in my glass wondering, could it be, I, no better than them, no, not me. When did this happen, why wasn't I there, where was my pro, and why doesn't he care? My game deserted me, why wasn't I at my best, my putter went south and my short game is a mess. My swing hitches and stutters with a glitch and a flaw, sometimes I hit a fade, no wait it's a draw. I could pull my hair out or see a shrink, I could practice and bring my game to the brink. Why did this happen, a reason I can not think, luckily there's always tomorrow, so I will order another drink.