An Invitation to the Blues
by Gaming Chip
National Poetry Month is here. The membership has voiced some concerns that this will bring the return of the pot smoking, poorly bathed Frenchmen. They have moved on to Palo Alto Muni, due to our limited wine selection, and will not be present to sing the praises of Jean van de Melt during golf telecasts. So enjoy another episode of Chip.
It was cold, windy and damp,
my head hurt, my wallet was empty, I felt like a tramp.
My exact location was uncertain, my whereabouts unknown,
all that really mattered was my girl had flown.
I was tilted, listing strongly to port,
swinging from a lamp post with no visible support.
I searched my memory analyzing the clues,
clutching her Dear John letter, my invitation to the blues.
It started as it always does,
with a beautiful woman, oh man she was.
A drink, a dinner, a dance,
our savory recipe for a springtime romance.
Lazy Sunday mornings and evenings of dreamy talk,
life was good, what made this girl balk?
Things began to go south during the Masters,
this classic love story became one of my biggest disasters.
We began to make bets, as golfers often will,
she took Rory, and Tiger, while I took the field and Phil.
All the propositions were covered, greenies, polies, Arnies and such,
by the end of the weekend, I owed much.
My offer to square up in trade was met with a rather loud hiss,
how could such a lovely woman treat me like this?
My ego and swagger took a large hit that day,
she didn't want the man, only the pay.
So let this be a lesson to those with a woman to start,
don't bet on golf, and never, ever bet with your heart.