A Golfers Lament

Swing it slow, grip it soft, I strike the ball but get no loft
Think again what you've been taught, I can't believe I get so fraught
Address the ball, posture good, I think I'll take a seven wood
Head is still, knees slightly bent, I strike the ball and miles it went

Three shots left to get my par, sixty yards to go 's not far
I search my bag and choose a wedge, then hook my shot into the hedge
Take a drop, now playing five, can I keep this hole alive
A short chip forward towards the pin, and then two puts before it's in
I hang my head as if in shame, for Gods sake remember it's just a game.

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