Sunday

Golf Poem

In my hand I hold a ball
white and dimpled, 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 it's spell
I've wandered through the fires of hell.

My life has 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 straight and far

To master such a tiny ball
should not be very hard at all
But my desires the ball refuses
and does exactly like it chooses

It hooks and 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 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 ball knows I'll be back tomorrow!

Sent by John D