Now McDuff and McGee were playing one day; the weather, a golfer's delight.
The sun's rays were warm; the light breeze was fresh; nary a cloud was in sight.
An earlier spit of rain had gone by that had moistened and softened the greens.
T'was surely the finest day of the year; . . . the best one yet, they'd seen.
Good friends they were, they played twice a week; a regular test of their skill.
A wager, each time, was put on the line; a win meant a five-dollar bill.
They'd started their game just after ten, and had worked their way well round the track.
When the noon bell chimed, they were on number nine; by two they'd be finished the back.
Hole number fourteen paralleled a main road, and traffic moved by in a shuffle.
Cars, trucks, and vans; the sounds of the street; a cacophony of kerfuffle.
A built-in distraction to bother the boys in pursuit of their golfing obsession,
As they neared the green, headlights could be seen; a hearse with some cars in procession.
As this somber parade made its way past the course, McDuff moved his cap to his chest.
When the last car went by, he waved a good-by. McGee shook his head and confessed,
"I had no idea how reverent you were; that funeral, it near brought a tear."
"Well why not," said McDuff, "It's the least I could do. We were married for thirty-five years."