A 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 its spell,
I've wandered through the fires of hell.
My life has not been quite the same,
since I choose to play this stupid game.
It rules my mind for hours on end,
a fortune it has made me spend.
It has made me yell, 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 chooses.
It hooks and slices, dribbles and dies,
and even 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.
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 choose to play this stupid game.
It rules my mind for hours on end,
a fortune it has made me spend.
It has made me yell, 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 chooses.
It hooks and slices, dribbles and dies,
and even 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.
posted by Ralph at 5:03 AM
8 Comments:
Oh my, I certainly now know to steer clear of golf as I have a very game addictive personality and I am not pleasant to be around when things seem to get the best of me! But to you, I wish you all sorts of luck and such, it looks so fun and easy when Dirt watches on the tv.
That's the part about golf that brings us all back - the dozen or so shots that make us think we can master the game. I was pretty good for awhile, bit haven't played much recently. My knee gives me fits.
DOR
I did not write this - I just agree with it. I received it twice in e-mail a few days back.
That makes you a golfaholic! But you love it Ralph! :)
Terrific poem, this is clear,
True of golfers far and near.
Frustration abounds at every hole,
If only one could reach their goal
Without the agony of water and sand,
A ball that landed at your command,
What satisfaction that would bring,
And Ralph would very loudly sing.
Wow Ralph... you got me! I can neither golf nor write poetry! You da' man! ~ jb///
Poor guy. I'm smarter than you, though. I'm so bad at golf I just quit it altogether.
I quit playing golf after three holes.
But I sent this on to my B-I-L whose home is on the 8th Tee of the Jacksonville FL Country Club.
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