An Ode To Hacking


I took a walk the other day
Out to a golf course, bright and gay
And gazed upon the lush fairway
And hit into the trees.

I felt the tension in my neck
As in the woods I walked my trek
My temper flared but held in check
This wouldn’t be my day.

I found my ball within some sedge
This called for the ole pitching wedge
I smacked my ball into a hedge
And cursed under my breath.

My swing is set, I hesitate,
I see my partners stand and wait
I make it to the green in eight
A four putt makes it twelve.

I watch them cruise the cart to two
And drag my ass, I know I’m screwed,
But there is naught that I can do
Except to play the game.

A dogleg left, a curve quite nice
I take my swing and watch it slice
Into the trees; it echoes thrice
From wooden stands it strikes.

I head into the woods again
I close my eyes; try Golfing Zen
I find I’m on the green in ten
A two put makes it twelve.

I tell the keeper of the score
That I now stand at twenty-four
And I don’t want to golf no more
They laugh and set their tees.

The yard sign says four eighty-one
This hole? Antithesis of fun.
There’s water hazards, and the sun
Is shining in my eyes.

I watch them swing, so full of grace
Their balls go on that fairway place
I try so hard to save some face
And slice it once again.

I walk among the leafy green
A place so calm, and so serene,
And then this placid forest scene
Is shattered by my curse.

I take my swing and watch it go
And where it went I do not know
A solid sound signals the blow
It makes when hitting trees.

I make my way towards the sound
My feet and hopes drag on the ground
I have this sense that I am bound
To find it in a tree.

This is the mighty hole three
My game is gone, deserted me
And when I finally make the lea
My score now stands at nine.

I take my wedge firmly in hand
And make my way into the sand
And chip onto the green. How Grand!
A two put makes it twelve.

Onto the next, a dogleg right
I kneel, I pray, I hope I might
Slice my ball through airy flight
And land somewhere with grass.

I send my ball into the skies
And watch to see where Wilson lies.
This game of golf I now despise
I watch my golf ball’s course.

I stand there at the starting gate,
I take a breath and curse my fate
The goddamn shot I took went straight
And joined the trees again.

I walk into the trees to find
That curséd ball that I call mine
I stand there in the trees and whine
That this game really stinks.

And this is how my game would go
It’s eighteen holes that I’d blow
My score at end is Two-one-Oh!
I hang my head in shame.

I stand upon the eighteenth green
And look about this tranquil scene
This verdant Hell through which I’d been
I’m calm now that I’m done.

I join the clubhouse revelries
And with a beer my tension flees
And off to home I now proceed
But I’ll be back tomorrow.

Robin Dahling is a Writing Instructor for Undergraduate students by day, and by night, he dresses up in a mask and cape and then sits on his sofa watching super-hero films and TV series. When he grows up, he hopes to be grown up.

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