In my hand I hold a ball White and dimpled and rather small.
Oh, how bland it does appear This harmless looking little sphere.
By it’s size I could not guess The awesome strength it does possess.
But since I fell beneath it’s spell. I’ve wandered through the fires of hell.
My life has not quite been the same. Since I chose to play this stupid game.
It rules my mind for hours on end. A fortune it has made me spend.
It has made me curse & made me cry. And hate myself and want to die.
It promises me a thing called Par. If I could hit it straight & 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. And 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 a tiny patch of sand.
Then has me offering up my soul. If only it would find the hole.
It’s made me whimper like a pup. And swear that I will give it up.
And take to drink to ease my sorrow But the ball knows …
I’ll be back tomorrow
Credit to Allan Berman the original creator of this poem.