Celestial Sport Poem by B. V. Dahlen

“Fore”, he cries as his ball flies
From tee to fairway core
No cross winds to avert it’s track
He couldn't ask for more

His shot bites solid on the green
And sails past sand and bunker
His putt is sure and in the cup
He can not hit a clunker

No tee times ever make him wait
Great partners always found
The carts are spotless and maintained
The greens are never crowned

Saint Peter is the local pro
He really loves to play
And Jack is now his favorite chum
For a daily golf parlay

No waiting for a sunny day
No fear of cold or showers
A new course every single time
That he can play for hours

So heaven is a golfer’s dream
And Jack is playing through
With no limits to time and space
This bounty surely due.