YIPS

A Poem

Old Podo travel fair and clean

Struck only by the pure of heart

Landing near but not quite on the green.

A wee and teeny little stroke

Needs only some finesse.

A steady nerve and follow through,

A hand that knows caress.

Soon “Flinch” and “Lurch” and all their kind

Have wreaked their havoc sweet.

The shot launched long or god forbid

Is chunked and at our feet.

The wailing and the roaring

And the oaths of passion’s greed

Are heard above the gnash of teeth

This choke, This stroke, This deed.

The who? The why? The wherefore?

Affecting putts and chips

Strike only the damned and afflicted

By the demon we golfers call YIPS!