Culture

Poetry Corner

On this day in 1860 theĀ 1st British Golf Open “The Open” was played; in which Willie Park Snr shoots a 164 at Prestwick Club, Scotland.

Knowing how much Golf means to some, I have chosen a poem which will hopefully both resonate and make folk smile, including my Brother and Nephew Iain & Ryan Wlkie, featured in the two photos taken earlier this year at St Andrews, Fife, Scotland.

 

 

An Ode To Golf

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 (5 Euros) 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.

By Allan Berman

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