Golf with the Boys

“In youth we had the time but lacked the money for our toys,
Now we’ve money and toys, but no time for the boys!”
So it has become necessary, like old fogeys all,
To play golf, once a month, and lose too many balls.

Allen is the sensible one, married and with two kids,
His balls land where he wants them to, until that is,
He has his second beer and his swings go a little wild,
But he’ll beat us all still and do it with a smile.

Murray is the wild child, ever eager for games to play,
Golf’s not his thing, but it’s worth it for a day,
Hotheaded and passionate about everything and none,
He’ll rack up a hell of a score just for the fun.

Now Old Bill is the stoic, the tough man on a mission,
Golf’s not a game – it’s a god-damned competition,
But give it a few cheap drinks and a swift kick in the rear,
He’s laughing with the rest of us, spilling all his beer.

As for me, myself, well how do I describe the poet?
I’m just here for my friends, that’s all there is to it.

Prompt: From A-, M-, and B-, “How hard is to write poetry? Can you just write about anything? Do now. Golf. Poem this.”