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Golf From Hell
THE DEVIL INVENTED THIS IMPOSSIBLE SPORT.
WORSE THAN HELLFIRE, IT’S YOUR LAST RESORT.
SO MANY HAVE TRIED; SO MANY HAVE CRIED.
IN THOSE HAZZARDS SO MANY HAVE DIED.
WHAT A PLEASURE TO PLAY WITH A SCRATCH HANDICAPPER.
MAKES YOU WANT TO THROW YOUR STICKS IN THE CRAPPER.
HE SAYS IT’S JUST EYE-HAND COORDINATION.
HE’S NEVER SUFFERED FROM TWO-FOOT PUTT CONSTIPATION.
HE SAYS IT’S JUST A MATTER OF SHIFTING YOUR WEIGHT.
AS FOR ANYMORE SHIFTING, IT’S NOW TOO LATE.
AND WHAT’S THAT DEAL ABOUT A FULL SHOULDER TURN?
WHEN I TIE MY SHOES, THEY ALREADY BURN.
WORST OF ALL IS HIS SMOOTH, SLOW BACKSWING.
IF I TRIED THAT, I WOULDN’T MOVE ANYTHING.
HE SAYS TIMING GIVES HIM ADDED TORK.
I SAY MY TIMING HELPS ME PLAY LIKE A DORK.
AND OH MY GOD WHEN HE’S ON THE GREEN,
HE DROPS PUTTS LIKE A MACHINE.
THAT’S WHERE WE PLAY SOMEWHAT THE SAME
I MACHINE GUN MY PUTTS… AND KILL MY GAME.
AT THE END OF THE ROUND, HE SAYS IT WAS FUN.
BUT I’M HERE TO TELL YOU WHEN THAT ORDEAL’S DONE,
I HEAD FOR THE SHOWERS SAD AND ALONE.
AGAIN I’VE BEATEN MYSELF… ALL ON MY OWN.
poem
by
Gregory Huyette
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