The odd thing about golf and the way it is played, is white carts lined up on walkways as if a parade. Across meadows and brooks, in sun and in shade, a club and a ball are the tools of this trade.
When learning to play all of nature is a fear, trees are the enemy, trunks always near, water silently watches, a rival worthy of a glare, sand hides in a bunker, traps with a flare.
A whiff and a boink, a chunk here or there, a thunk and a clump, a pitch and despair. A smack and a throw, finally a prayer, “Let me make this shot, I’ll repent, I swear.”
As you improve, your goal is to make par, as you try to progress and become a big star. Words in your game, they change quite bazaar. from five letters to four with hardly a scar.
Love of the game will rival that of a mate, hook and a draw, the fade will be first rate. Putts will be made, friends may call you great, then it arrives, the fickle finger of called fate.
Shots will go awry, you’ll fume and you’ll swear, clothes will be ripped, clubs thrown in the air. Divots will deepen, ground will need repair, friends will avoid you, a big grizzly bear.
Then it will hit you, something quite rare, the reason is simple, you should be aware. Golf has four letters, a reason you declare, curse words have four, so others please beware.
Butch Sollars 2003 Atila the Hun
······· ·······
|