The Golfer

Who's that stranger, Mother dear,
Look he knows us, ain't that queer,
Hush My own, don't talk so wild,
He's your father, dearest child.
He's my father, No such thing;
Father died away last Spring.
Father didn't die - you dub;
Father joined a golfing club,
But they closed the club, so he
Has no other place to go, you see -
No place left for him to roam -
That's why he is coming home.
Kiss him - he won't bite you child;
All them golfing guys look wild.

Product Information:

Golf poem

Size: 11"x14" in green and black
Discount on Multiples: Email Holly your quantity for pricing
Calligrapher: Clifford D. Mansley