This is a short poem about one of the biggest hazards on a golf course, trees!
All too often you line up to take your shot, and the ball mysteriously aims itself at the nearest tree, bounces off and ends up somewhere in the rough.
I don’t know who wrote this poem, I think their name was Ann O’Nimus, or something like that, but it definitely sums up my game of golf.
I think that I shall never see
a hazard rougher than a tree;
A tree o’er which my ball must fly
if on the green it is to lie.
A tree which stands that green to guard,
and makes the shot extremely hard;
A tree whose leafy arms extend
to kill the six iron shot I send.
A tree that stands in silence there,
while angry golfers rave and swear.
Irons were made for fools like me
who cannot ever miss a tree.
Image used under a Collective Commons License from: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Beemer,_Nebraska._14th_Hole_of_the_Indian_Trails_Golf_Course.jpg
