A golf poem
A 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 strength it does possess,
But since I fell beneath its spell,
I’ve wandered through the gates of Hell.
My life has never been 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 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 so 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 chooses, rather, a 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 it knows I’ll be back tomorrow.
Stand proud you noble swingers of clubs and losers of balls….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.
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