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The Game ©

John McCormick
Bass Lake, Ontario, Canada

Some years ago,
Not long it seems.
I pondered life
And all my dreams,
Of how I thought
That things should be,
When I was just but twenty three.
A happy time,
How quick it passes,
We drank, we smoked,
We chased the lassies,
Until they caught us.
Then at the age of thirty four
I took up golf
And kept the score,
With truth
In all my dealings.
I played with friends,
We shared our feelings.
We breathed clean air.

I've lost three partners
In a row,
To lung disease.

Bob, a Scot,
The last to go,
A giant man who kept the law
Played straight and well.
His stories were
Of bush frontiers,
And drunks he stowed in northern cell.
An honest man.

Lloyd and I were friends, way back
To mining towns
By railroad track we went.
We played the game
When ere we could.
His putts went straight,
His game was good.
I agreed with his philosophy
That men were fools,
Who didn’t follow
All the rules.

Norm drove best,
farthest of any.
We played,
And never bet a penny.
Although the way he stroked the ball,
He could have won,
But the game was all.

My friends had another
They always saw the best in me.
Each one gone,
No “Lungs for Life”
Will help them now.
Each made his mark,
Each pulled his plough.

Though some beliefs I do endorse,
I don’t believe in “Pearly Gates”
Or that somewhere “there”
The threesome waits, for me.
To tee-off
On a heavenly course.
I know that they
Are just asleep.
So 'til my time comes,
Their rules I'll keep
And breathe clean air.

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