Golf Poem
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Posts: 906
From: Windsor, Ontario
Golf Poem
Golf Poem
In my hand I hold a ball,
White and dimpled, and rather small.
Oh how bland it does appear,
This harmless looking little sphere.
By its size I could not guess,
The awesome power it does possess.
But since I fell beneath its spell,
I've wandered through the fires of hell.
My life has never 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 taunts me with a thing called par,
If I hit it truly 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 often disappears before my eyes.
Sometimes it will have a whim,
To hit a tree or take a swim.
With miles of grass on which to land,
It opts to find a tiny patch of sand.
Then has me offering up my soul,
If only it would find the hole.
It’s made me angry and pump my fists
And think of slashing both my wrists
It's made me whimper like a pup,
And swear that I will give it up.
It’s made me drink to ease my sorrow,
But the damn ball knows... I'll be back tomorrow.
Stand proud you noble swingers of the club and losers of ***** a recent study found the average golfer walks about 900 miles a year.
Another study found golfers drink, on average, 22 gallons of alcohol a year. That means, on average, golfers get about 41 miles to the gallon. Kind of makes you proud. Almost feels like a hybrid.
In my hand I hold a ball,
White and dimpled, and rather small.
Oh how bland it does appear,
This harmless looking little sphere.
By its size I could not guess,
The awesome power it does possess.
But since I fell beneath its spell,
I've wandered through the fires of hell.
My life has never 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 taunts me with a thing called par,
If I hit it truly 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 often disappears before my eyes.
Sometimes it will have a whim,
To hit a tree or take a swim.
With miles of grass on which to land,
It opts to find a tiny patch of sand.
Then has me offering up my soul,
If only it would find the hole.
It’s made me angry and pump my fists
And think of slashing both my wrists
It's made me whimper like a pup,
And swear that I will give it up.
It’s made me drink to ease my sorrow,
But the damn ball knows... I'll be back tomorrow.
Stand proud you noble swingers of the club and losers of ***** a recent study found the average golfer walks about 900 miles a year.
Another study found golfers drink, on average, 22 gallons of alcohol a year. That means, on average, golfers get about 41 miles to the gallon. Kind of makes you proud. Almost feels like a hybrid.
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coldwar
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Mar 15, 2010 06:22 PM
