A Golfer’s 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 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 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. I

 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 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.

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