poem

Golf Poem - GOLFERs lament

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 Its 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 Curse And Made Me Cry,

And Hate Myself And Want To Die.
It Promises Me A Thing Called Par,

If I Hit It 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 As It Chooses.

It Hooks And Slices, Dribbles And Dies,
And Disappears Before My Eyes.
Often It Will Have 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 To Drink To Ease My Sorrow,

But The Ball Knows ...

I'll Be Back Tomorrow.

Stand proud, noble swingers of clubs and losers of balls!

Recent studies found average golfers walk 900 miles a year.

Another study found golfers drink 22 gallons of alcohol a year.

This means, on average, golfers get 41 miles to the gallon!

Kind of makes you proud. Almost makes you feel like a hybrid. . .