Fellow writer Frank Rekas posted the poem “Invictus” and I couldn’t resist taking the piss out of it:Out of the summer that covers me, Bright from pin to hole, I thank the greensman for his work And know putting is in my soul. When I have shanked or wiffed or even sliced I have not winced nor cried aloud. Though bludgeoned by my partner’s club My head is bloody, but unbowed. Beyond the trees and rough and tears Awaits the solace of the shade, Wherein await the cooling beers And many chances to get laid. It matters not if I be late, Left behind are ice and sticks and goals. For I am master of my fate And guides the ball to hole.