Wednesday, April 1, 2015

Humpday Hilarity - a Golf Poem

Starting to smell like one of the greatest weeks in sports. The Masters is like none other, with the beautiful backdrop of azaleas, dogwoods, and perfect lawns. If golf is a religion, then Augusta National is its own St. Peter's Basilica - beautifully constructed, awe inspiring, and brings grown men to their knees.

Next week it will be full of guys from all over the world, that rarely have recited this poem:
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 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 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.
A RECENT STUDY FOUND THE AVERAGE GOLFER
WALKS ABOUT 900 MILES A YEAR.
ANOTHER STUDY FOUND GOLFERS DRINK,
ON AVERAGE,
22 GALLONS OF ALCOHOL A YEAR.
THAT MEANS,
ON AVERAGE, GOLFERS GET ABOUT 41 MILES TO THE GALLON.
KIND OF MAKES YOU PROUD.
I ALMOST FEEL LIKE A HYBRID. (h/t Mac)