Whether birdie or bogey or double or par,
whether topped shot or fat, not so terribly far,
I love you golf even more than a Cuban cigar,
and the times I pause for praying.
It’s a love that at times leaves bad tastes in my mouth.
It’s a love that does grieve me, makes me rage and shout.
It’s a love that, believe me, I know little about,
except that I’ll keep on playing.
But mostly I long for the solid feel of a strike,
hit on the screws, Bobby Jones-like.
Holding together like the Dutch build a dike,
not a skunk that tends towards spraying.
I will love you golf until my dying day,
and even beyond as I whither away.
For when I am gone, my soul it will stay,
game improving and constantly training.
Happy Valentine’s Day, y’all!