The Golf Ball

In my hand I hold a ball,
White and dimpled, rather small.
Oh, how harmless it does appear,
The innocent little sphere.

But its size I could not guess,
The awesome power it does possess.
But since I fell beneath its spell,
I've been through the fire of hell.

My life hasn't been quite the same,
Since I chose to play this game.
It rules my mind for hours on end,
A fortune it has made me spend.

It has made me curse and cry,
And hate myself and want to die.
It promises me a thing called par,
If I can hit it straight and far.

To master such a tiny ball,
Should not be very hard at all.
But my desires the ball refuses,
And does exactly what it chooses.

It hooks and slices, dribbles and dies,
Or disappears before my eyes.
Often it will have a whim,
To hit a tree or take a swim.

With miles of grass on which to land,
It finds that tiny patch of sand.
Then has be offering up my soul,
It it first whould drop in the hold.

It's made me wimper like a pup,
And swear that I will give it up.
And take a drink to ease my sorrow,
But the ball knows...I'll be back for more

--Anonymous