Golf Poem by Ray Andrews

The lofted ball up in the sky
From early Scotland you can hear them cry
If it lands in the rough and not on the green
A verbal lament, an error gone unseen

Rythmic swings like ballroom dance
The slightest error reduces your chance
An errant head or a wandering eye
If the ball is topped it won't even fly

The Gods of golf have deemed it sure
You may think your game is clean and pure
A little fatigue, too strong of a grip
The ball's trajectory it's own little trip

Or maybe it's fate with it's own hand
On somedays in the hole it won't even land
Fickleness reigns-nothing's the same
The draw of the fairways-the name of the game