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!
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