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Wednesday, November 22, 2006


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 his size I could not guess
The awesome strength it does possess;
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
cry
I hate myself and want to die.

I am promised 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, 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 it will just drop in the hole.

Its 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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