The Money Pit

A poem of remorse.

Eighty thousand fifty--
         Fore!
--no, twenty-two, then add the spouse;
abhor this soulless yearly chore,
just don't forget: deduct the house!

Carbs are twenty-three plus--
         Fore!
--no, seventeen. A needle prick
and dinnertime. I'll have one more-
'til crash! Kaboom! Take cover, quick!.

Broken window count is--
         Fore!
--no, wrong, it's five, for shattered glass
upon white quartz again explores
and creeps through crumbs of fore repast.

Ask three hundred grand plus--
         Fore!
--no, six percent for listing fees
plus pearls or gold or cash offshore
to rid us of this vile disease.

Swing! Tee time! Hole nine is --
         Fore!
--no, that was three, one under par,
not one stroke more. Now what's the score?
House: one, us: love. Sigh; where's the car?

LINE COUNT: 25