The old sport of golf, which I occasionally play
Can confound and frustrate, even on a good day.
Despite hours of practice at that old range,
I flail at the ball in manners quite strange.
When I play I notice
the beauty around me,
But I lose all that as I head for that first tee.
Instead I’ll focus on any mistake I might make
And start paying ahead for the bad swings I will take.
Most golfers I know, though they’re humble
Are yet proud of their long-practiced skill
And expect those results from the driving range will
Show up at the tees, the fairways and greens
Along with birdies and pars, not scores in the teens
But much of the time their skills take a tumble
And as their club meets the ball they may mumble
Not words they’d intend or normally use,
Instead words about feces or certain sex acts.
It seems this is the duty that golfing exacts.
And we’re all here today just paying our dues
When I hear so much of this grumbling and all
I wonder about my first lesson last fall
Is this what the pro called ‘addressing the ball?’
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