A merry medley of mischievousness, a sprite
Dance upon broad, golden leaves of box fern
While sneaky elves, play golf during the night
Where sleek hunting wolves are of no concern.

Over their heads, the moon’s rays are bright
As the elves count the strokes that, they earn
And the Sprites look on, just tucked from sight
Waiting to spread the fool’s play, they learn.

Giggles of laughter, airy and loudly light
Dance over the buttery waves that churn
While stroke, after stroke, driven with might
Batter down the desire to win, they yearn.

All in good sportsmanlike conduct, no fight
For the winner is a loser that way, it’s stern
Yet gentlemen’s rules played to nary a slight
As they chip, each in sequence, take a turn.