An Ode to SOS

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
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
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