Poem To The Golfer
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 game.
It rules my mind for hours on end.
A fortune it has made me spend.
It has made me curse and cry.
I hate myself and want to die.
It promises a thing called "par".
If I can 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 choses.
It hooks and slices..dribbles..dies
Or 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 it will just drop in 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.