An Ode to SOS

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AN ODE TO SOS

by Shakespeare in Glove

Its six thirty five in the morning, when I hear the alarm bell ring

The fairways start to call me, it’s time to get up and swing

I throw open my closet door, pushing aside the tub of lube

My tour shirt stares right back at me, the mighty chaffer of the boob

 

My ball bag is overflowing, it barely fits in the boot

Funnily enough that’s what she said, I snigger she’s such a sloot

I slide into Modder’s parking lot, the king has finally arrived

I may have raised my bat last time, but my confidence feels revived

 

Standing on the practice green, I see the rest of the SOS crew

One or two are missing, they’re either late or having a poo

Around the fines chair we rally, his fine is duly explained

Some faces go deathly pale, some shorts become instantly stained

 

The four-balls then do scatter, last night’s activities are discussed

Clubs are swung in practice, getting rid of any rust

Smack talk is spoken widely, insults hurled and thrown

Who’s a hom and who is not, and who here should be blown

 

Number one steps up to the box, his new ProV sparkling white

He gives the crowd a little waggle, before poessing it high & right

The second takes the stage now, he’s properly in the hunt

But he drills a giant oak tree, its back to the future for this cunt

 

The third looks mighty nervous, a definite shake there in the knee

He tops the ball like Hellen Keller, that’s a ladies we all agree

The fourth drills it into the fence, before ricocheting back in play

Mr Simpson would be proud of that, mark him down for the first OJ

 

The game is well and truly a foot, the first hole’s a sneaky par four

But focus is already waning, for these members know what’s in store

Some of us are on the first, while others face the rear nine

Yet another discounted course from Kyle, yet another hollow-tine

 

Points are hard to come by, there are rings for all to see

And Gareth’s bladder’s failing, I’m counting wee number three

Moffies’ teethed it over the pin, his game’s hit the skids

He’d rather be in the clubhouse, eyeing out all the little kids

 

Someone’s landed in the drink, I think it must be Dwag

I can tell by that rapey beard, he’s such a god damn fag

Nice Dick just missed a put for par, now that’s a serious choke

I can hear incoherent mumbling now, I swear that kids had a stroke

Jason Stuart - affectionately known as Winky

he’s such a god damn fag

Spuncey lipped out on the 5th, and now he’s beginning to rant

Damo’s eating more cookies, and I can hear him start to pant

Kev’s peepers are stealing sunshine, his eyes are freaking me out

And Denz is shooting birdies, he’s a ringer I have no doubt

 

As for me I’m on the twelfth, facing my putting fears

And I can tell that’s Dale on the last, check those fucking ears.

Bernie’s playing well again, but his beards a Taliban mess

Someone’s missing from his four-ball, I think its IMS.

 

Hartichokes also absent, apparently a pawty for his dog

While Marcel’s on the 7th, dropping a massive, juicy log

Marvin’s off the night-shift, as well as Whatsapp on racial grounds

While Seun sips his last crème soda – bless him, he has downs

bless him, he has downs

In the bunker on the sixth, stands George his scalp agleam

He’s turning red before our eyes, the doos forgot suncream

And there in the rough sits Tarqueef, half Indian half Afghan

I can only describe this mixture, as a turd with a real deep tan

 

While there on the ninth is Richard, his iron gives off a sweet little ping

That’s in contrast to his wedding vommits, that’s a roar from Mufasa the king

Grant just chunked one badly, a sight we’ve come to know quite well

He also must’ve sharted, holy fuck his farts can smell

 

Ross is teeing up on the ninth, his posture without doubt the worst

But despite being last in this regard, he tee’d up the Chair’s wife first

Across the valley we hear a thud, followed by an ominous clang

That must be Boomers swinging big iron, compensating for his tiny wang

 

Panda’s stroking his three wood, as it slowly starts to throb

He’s dreaming of one young Kelsey, hanging off his virgin knob

Aiming left but turning hard right, comes a ball with vicious spin

It’s the fucked up swing of Jenny Crys, & his mighty triple chin.

 

But there on the green putting for par, someone’s found perfect direction

With a frame like that you know its Nick, cos he shops in the kiddies section

Mills & Schleup are also on the green, with pitches that both did stick

Schleup’s a legend for bringing beer, but Mills can suck a dick

 

There’s fresh meat in rotation today, one called Giulio one called Guy

And they’re certainly a damn sight prettier, than that dickhead from Dubai.

I should be in the running today, with zero rings and a little luck

Just really wish we were playing the View, cos Modders super kak

 

Finally we’re all at the bar, the nineteenth is in full session

There are shots and beers aplenty, one for each & every transgression

There are wetties, sandies & gaugelers, and sometimes even a freshy

Tampons, hitlers and box fines, shit is definitely about to get messy.

 

There are dirty songs a plenty, not to mention fines for Chris

For his nipples are like fucking saucers, and his beer smells like piss

And while the day is wrapping up, with yet another doggity dog dog bowl

Moving slower than cancer is Chip, who’s’s still on the 16th fucking hole

Andrew Robertson "Chip"

Moving slower than cancer is Chip