Golf Poem by H H Rutledge

Some might say that God had a plan
For every other woman, child and man,
To grab a club and hurry, hurry
Onto the green no later than early.
To hit little balls into the air.
Where do they fall? Somewhere out there.
'Twas Babe, Palmer, The Bear, and Ben..
Now Tiger's throngs are puttin' to win.
I know not why it rules their souls,
This little ball.. this little hole.
In short I'm wet.. I stand ashake.
My favorite ball fell in the lake.