Dainton Park Cowboy.

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They call him the 'Dainton Park Cowboy'.

By the way, that's the name of our club.

Where everyone is ever so friendly,

Except for the occasional rub!


He was nicknamed the 'Dainton Park Cowboy',

For, despite handicap of twenty-eight plus,

He has a number of deadly tricks in his bag,

And he keeps putting one over on us!


As well as his clubs, he carries a stake,

Further down he secretes a tree.

So, if his ball's up to its ears in the rough,

He takes a free drop, naturally!


And if he encounters a scrutinizing eye,

He'll put these contraptions at bay,

But then reach deep for his radio ball,

The controls of which are hidden away!


Just any old contact, from one of his clubs,

Sends the ball way up, wild and free.

And what is more, on any par four,

With handicap, he scores minus three!


If he reaches the greens, using orthodox means,

He's got further surprises in store,

For he puts round the cup, a magnetic ring,

And his ball has a metallic core.  


He can stand idly there, with his back to the pin,

And putt that ball just anywhere!

‘Cos it doubles back and shoots down the hole,

As if being chased by a hare!


  Now, be very careful if he offers you a ball,

Everything is not as it looks.

Take my advice and don't take it old chap.

Just to stay in this fellow's good books!


Here, try one of these, he’ll say with a smile

They’ve just arrived from the States.

So you take his gift ball, then tee it up

And see what the future dictates.

For, if that weren't enough, he can get quite rough,

And reverse the magnetic force,

"Like poles repel", you can here him yell,

As your ball rebounds back, down the course!


He has another little contraption,

Controlled by a battery switch,

Which, when wheeled alongside his sunken ball,

Will lift it out of a ditch!


And another sinister and secret weapon,

Which is useful, just as it sounds,

With a very quick twist and a flick of the wrist

Can draw his ball back, from out of bounds!


Perhaps the best thing in his artillery,

Which is bound to destroy your last hope,

Which he puts on your clubs, whilst your attentions's elsewhere,

Is a pressurized spray of soft soap!


You've got to watch him too, if you mis-time a shot,

And listen to his shout of "Oh tough!"

'Cos he'll run to your ball and, just before you get there,

Deftly kick it into the rough!


But, if he ends up in the 'jungle'

He'll ask, " Is the green clear, can you see?"

And, as you look up, to see if all's well

He'll place his ball on a tee!


I'll not bore you with details of other foul tricks,

In truth I don't know them all,

But there are plenty of others, up this man's sleeve,

Which he'll, no doubt, not want me to recall!


You'll be wondering why they haven't 'cut' him yet?

It's because of his mesmeric ways,

Just as they're bringing the axe down,

They come under his hypnotic gaze!


"I think we agree, on this occasion,"

Says the Chairman, eyes big as a bus,

"That his score this time, was just a 'one off’,

Let him stay on twenty-eight plus!"


I'm telling you this, so you can be on your guard.

Make sure that his future is bleak.

Oh! by the way, I quite forgot to say,

You're down to play him, club competition, next week!


by Dai Abolical.  

This poem is dedicated to the Dainton 'cowboys' and their guardian angels!


Author: Trevor Durbidge     Copyright © 2001 [TJD].     All rights reserved.    Revised: October 31, 2007 .

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