Golf Poem by Phil Soar
Golf
He drove down the middle, the ball hit the sand
He grumbled allowed with his club in his hand
Then he walked quite a distance and shot for the green
But the ball hit the bank and was lost in a stream
The perils of golf and the groans from around
Were painful to hear as the ball hit the ground
His handicap suffered and so did his mood
he swore like a trooper, the language was crude
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/30/2024 3:04:42 AM # 1.0.0.1119
