The Golf Tragic

My husband plays golf, or at least he does try.
After many a round he will wonder just why.
It's not just a sport, it's a full-blown obsession
That can be euphoric or lead to depression.

He walks through the door, and I ask how it went,
Just being polite, but my ear will get bent.
He spouts meaningless numbers and hole-by-hole plays.
He won't even notice my eyes start to glaze.

The gear you can buy is expensive and endless.
I must admit that I wish he would spend less.
If you think that some clubs, a bag, balls and shoes
Would be all that he'd need, then you haven't a clue!

He needs GPS watches and ball picker-uppers,
Umbrellas and gloves and club cleaning brushes,
Remote controlled buggy and replacement grips.
Don't forget lessons and those golfing trips.

The pricing of golf wear just couldn't be crasser -
Fabric technology developed by NASA!
And before you know it he wants to trade up;
His clubs are old models and not up to snuff.

He watches the tournaments and every golf show
(To me it's as thrilling as watching grass grow).
He browses the internet and reads magazines;
The golf tips on YouTube, the knowledge he gleans!

This theory won't always translate into practice.
He'll mess with his game till it's totally cactus.
The stance and the takeaway, the swing plane and height
Have all been dissected till nothing works right.

And then one fine day he's as pleased as can be,
A hole-in-one certificate he presents to me.
It's not quite a car, but I'm still very proud;
A feat only dreamed of...I truly am wowed!

A trophy now takes pride of place on the shelf,
A reminder to not be too hard on himself.
He mustn't give up when his handicap suffers,
'Cause then I would lose those sweet five hour buffers!