In the quiet of Redhill's sprawling green, Where winter whispers where leaves once gleaned, The last Wednesday outing, before Christmas cheer, Bad golfers tread where holiday spirits near. Their clubs speak less of skill, more of chance, As they shank and slice in a tipsy dance. Laughter echoes where straight shots fail, Vodka warms hearts as chill winds prevail. Each swing a testament to mirth, not might, Under the fading light of early twilight. At Redhill, where dreams and duffs entwine, Tipsy golfers toast to the festive line.