The Poetry of Golf
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 it’s size I could not guess the awesome strength it does posess.
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 should 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 dissapears before my eyes.
Ofter 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 sould, 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.
A recent study found that the average golfer walks about 900 miles a year.
Another study found that golfers drink, on average, 22 gallons of alcohol a year.
Kind of makes you proud. Almost makes you feel like a hybrid.