Golf Poem

In my hand I hold a ball
White, 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 it’s 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 swear, yell and cry
I hate myself, I 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 what it chooses

It hooks and slices, dribbles and dies
And even disappears before my eyes
Often it will on a whim
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 a drink to ease my sorrow
But the ball knows…I’ll be back tomorrow.

Written by Allan Berman

(OK, you didn’t really think those two could come up with something this brilliant, did you?) Nothing against those guys, they are two very bright, refined, gentleman but this kind of eloquence and grace doesn’t exactly scream Cunningham and Goldie). The poem was found and sent to co-commissioner Cupcake by our very own Ollie. Stop surfing the net and get back to work Ollie!

Start a Conversation

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *