Par For The Curse Poem by Burt Poole

There has never been a little sphere
to cause more consternation,
Than that simple, dimpled, white round thing
that we use for recreation.
We tee it up, drive it out, then chip
it to the green,
Then we line it up and putt it to a
hole that’s hardly seen.
It gets sliced and sand-trapped and
knocked into the rough,
Which is ample proof of a stated truth,
“Its hide sure is tough! ”
It is used for making eagles and birdies
that can’t fly, and for
Scoring baneful bogeys when the par
has been denied.
Just a simple, dimpled, white thing that
we use for relaxaion,
But there’s nothing on this big green
earth to cause more exasperaation.
If you feel down, disgusted, when your
score’s more high than low,
When you’ve muffed it and you’ve roughed
it, or the putt you had to blow,
Don’t start breaking up your drivers, don’t
decide to end it all—
Hit that sphere, tough, white, drive
with all your might-
You can’t make that small golf “BAWL”.