I’ve started short mat bowling, and enjoy it all the time But some things I find difficult There’s seem to be no reason, and certainly no rhyme When playing football—what do they use? A ball! in golf and tennis, the answer is the same. But for us, the bowls we use, aren’t bowls at all Clearly made of plastic—but we still call them woods.
Then one guy was told, that he should go and skip.
Did he do it? Not one step— in fact With backside on a chair, he seemed to take a kip. Change your hand he said, when I was on the mat, But when I changed from right to left, he seemed to change his mind, mumbled in confusion . Not four he said—now I knew that—'cause I have only two. Back hand he demanded—but I still bowled in front!
I find it disconcerting when I hit the centre block, no “bowl a little wider” it’s ‘you need a bit more green’. Worst of all, my woods refuse to keep the line I send, Sometimes they’re fast, and then they’re slow, wobble, wander, off they go - to drive me round the bend.
But, there are times, though skill I sadly lack, When more by luck than judgement, A wobbly, wayward, wanderer, may land upon the Jack. ’Tis then I stifle conscience, and give a little smile, As though it was intended, the result of my good aim; Even to believe that it really was no fluke, And for a fleeting moment think—I might play this game.