The Golf Poem

In honor of The Masters (my favorite major tournament and the only pro golf course I have walked extensively), I thought I would offer this reflection.










That's Why They Call it "Golf"

When a man's feeling blue
He will often break through
And lift himself from the trough
By hitting some balls
With some fades and some draws,
And that's why they call it golf.

He ain't any pro
But his wife doesn't know
That his investment never pays off
No matter how slick
He hacks with his stick
When he tells her he's playing some golf.

For most of his round
His ball can't be found
Although he tries to show off
His drive and his chip
And his putts to the lip
Of the cup when he's playing some golf.

His buddies tell lies
As he swears at the skies
And pretends that his game is well-off,
But in truth he's a hack
And he's hurting his back
Pretending that he's good at golf.

But on the 18th
When he's finished the length
And marked his score card on and off,
He feels really great
That's he's shot 108.
And that's why they call it Golf.