One never expects one
Standing *****,
Straddled with club in hand;
There's a postage stamp
With pole and flag
Daring resolve and grit;
So one checks one's stance,
Sneaks a glance
And slightly adjusts one's grip;
Then a reaction occurs
Like controlled fussion,
And out of confusion comes sense.
The contact cements a crack and launch,
Startling one like a gun;
One scratches one's head,
Dumbfounded and red,
One's aced a hole-in-one.