We were drab as a dead man’s hand:
We lolled at ease ’neath the dripping trees,
Or trailed thru the mud and sand.
Sextette-sided, with corners round,
Writing a language dumb;
While fingers snapped and cash exchanged
On bets that we wouldn’t “come.”
Later they labeled us “African Golf.”
And they gave us a spin once more.
Our forms were rolled in the clinging mold