He whacked at it, he smacked at it,
He got upset and hacked at it,
He caressed it, he addressed it,
Some adjectives expressed at it,
But that white, shiny dimpled ball
Was not inclined to move at all.
He stood up tall and swung at it,
Each ounce of strength he flung at it;
He bent his back to reach to it,
He missed again and screeched at it,
Yet it sat there so silently,
Untouched, unmoved upon the tee.
He finally connected it
And gleefully expected it
To sit up nicely on the grass—
A bunker swallowed it, alas!
Now nestled softly in the sand
Awaits the next attempts of man.
He slashed at it, he bashed at it,
With every club he thrashed at it,
But rather than extracting it
Succeeded in compacting it;
Now that white, shiny dimpled ball
Was buried deep, unseen to all.
He, from the sand collected it
By craft unknown directed it
Onto the centre of the green—
The final act; the final scene!
Some twenty feet left to the pin—
Two gentle strokes should pop it in.
He studies long the line of it,
Forgets the steep incline of it,
It turns sharp right, no sign of it,
Abuses the design of it—
The ball now resting in the dam
Safe at last from the blows of man.
“Did you have fun?” his wife enquired;
“Hmph”! says he, sweaty, wet and tired;
“What kind of mind would dare create
A game to drive a man irate?”
That little ball can so derange
As to leave grown men acting strange!
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