The game of golf suggests to me
A droll form of insanity.
People there just keep on knockin'
A little ball of blazing white
On it's senseless, futile flight.
Where it lands becomes most sacred –
Any doubt will faces make red.
The clubs all cost a kingly ransom.
The clothes they wear are rarely handsome.
Keeping score with handicap
Oft reveals a moral gap.
The greens are manicured each day
And treated with Oil of Olay.
Golf is neither play nor work;
It's lawn care that has gone beserk.
The planet Mars has water,
Now says NASA in amazement;
They could've saved the trouble
Just by looking in my basement.
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