A Quiet Game of Bowls

They told me bowls was peaceful,
A gentle sort of game,
You roll a ball towards the jack —
It sounded rather tame.

I bought myself some shiny bowls,
Some trousers, crisp and white,
And thought, “How hard can this thing be?
I’ll have cracked it by tonight.”

My first bowl left my fingers,
I watched it with delight,
It travelled twenty yards or so —
Then turned to right.

“Wrong bias!” cried my skip aloud,
As laughter filled the green,
I smiled as though I meant it —
And tried to stay serene.

“More weight!” somebody shouted,
So I gave the next one plenty,
It shot straight past the little jack
At roughly Mach point twenty.

My next also flew from my hand,
With quite alarming pace,
It missed the jack, crossed two more rinks,
And nearly left the place.

Then came my finest moment,
A toucher — what a bowl!
I strutted back towards my team,
With pride within my soul.

But then a voice behind me said,
That's not going to score..
Your bowl ended on rink six
And we're playing on rink four!

At tea we all discussed the game,
With biscuits by the score,
And every bowl I'd badly played
Got better than before.

By pint number two I'd drawn the jack,
By three I'd won the day,
By four I'd beaten everyone
With my final bowl in play.

So here's to all us bowlers,
Whatever skill we show,
We blame the green, the wind, the rain —
But never how we throw!

And when the final end is played,
And all the bowls are short,
We'll gather in the clubhouse
To give the game a thought.

We'll argue who was brilliant,
Who saved us with their last,
Who blamed the green for every bowl
That wandered three rinks past.

But bowls has taught me one great truth,
And this I'll gladly say:
The older that the bowler gets…
The better they were yesterday!