THE WOES OF GOLF


In my hand I hold a ball - White, dimpled and rather small;

Oh, how bland it does appear - This harmless looking little sphere;

By its size I could not guess - The awesome strength it does possess.

But, since I fell beneath its spell - I've wandered through the fires of hell;

My life’ s not been quite the same - Since I chose to play this stupid game;

It rules my mind for hours on end - A fortune it has made me spend;

It has made me swear and yell and cry - I hate myself and want to die;

It promises a thing called par - If I can hit the ball straight and far;

To master such a tiny ball - Should not be very hard at all;

But, all my desires the ball refuses - And does exactly like it chooses;

It hooks, slices, dribbles and dies - And even disappears before my eyes;

Often, it will take a whim - To hit a tree or take a swim;

With miles of grass on which to land - It finds a tiny patch of sand;

Then has me offering up my soul - If only once, it would find the hole;

It's made me whimper like a pup - And swear that I will give it up;

And take a drink to ease my sorrow - but, the little ball knows I'll be back tomorrow!