The lofted ball up in the sky <br />From early Scotland you can hear them cry <br />If it lands in the rough and not on the green <br />A verbal lament, an error gone unseen <br /> <br />Rythmic swings like ballroom dance <br />The slightest error reduces your chance <br />An errant head or a wandering eye <br />If the ball is topped it won't even fly <br /> <br />The Gods of golf have deemed it sure <br />You may think your game is clean and pure <br />A little fatigue, too strong of a grip <br />The ball's trajectory it's own little trip <br /> <br />Or maybe it's fate with it's own hand <br />On somedays in the hole it won't even land <br />Fickleness reigns-nothing's the same <br />The draw of the fairways-the name of the game<br /><br />Ray Andrews<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/golf-3/
