I am a golf ball in Dad's bag.
Son, little Tommy, comes along.
I'm in his hand, but I don't nag,
But feel that something will go wrong.
Cuz Tommy also does pull out
A club and puts me on the floor.
And then I hear a real loud shout.
He smacks me hard as he yells, 'Fore! '
I bounce around the room a lot,
Hitting all sorts of stuff, then pass
Through the big window the room's got.
There are the sounds of breaking glass.
Out in the yard in a bad lie,
I can hear little Tommy cry.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem