Those golfers who have been around for a while remember the now defunct Disc Golf World News (DGWN), which at the time was the official magazine of the PDGA. This poem was published in an issue of that magazine sometime in the past. I'm sorry but I don't remember which issue. Also, although doubtful, some golfers may even recognize the hole. So if you are into Disc Golf and Poetry, read on. If not, don't even open up the rest of this post. For those who don't heed the warning, i.e. those who don't golf but continue reading anyway, OB means Out of Bounds.
Nine Triple OB
A windy day and a very long hole
Awaits as I envision my drive
“My God, I can’t even see the pole”
“This really should be a par five.”
I take my run-up and let it rip
Out of my hand, and it’s gone
Immediately comes the anguished quip
“Oh no, what on earth have I done?”
The disc heads out towards the scenic lake
And never once does it turn
“Hyzer,” I plead, “For heaven’s sake!”
“I don’t have the money to burn!”
It heeds me not and continues its route
Splashes down with a mind of its own
My third stroke taken from where it went out
Straight into the bushes has flown.
Another stroke out as the wind kicks in
It’s carried out to the water again
There still isn’t any sign of the pin
And I’m down from twelve drivers to ten.
Finally an upshot that flies good and true
A putt that rattles a chain
Two lost discs that were brand spanking new
And a score that causes much pain.