Woe is the Day I Taught My Wife the Golfing Game

Eons ago, to my great shame,

I taught my wife the golfing game.

Said, "If you want to hit the ball,

Watch me, honey, I know it all."

I taught her how to putt and chip,

And trained her in the proper grip,

Studied her stance and coached her swings,

And said all kinds of piggy things.

Like:"If you practice, by and by,

"You'll play almost as well as I."

"But let make one thing so clear:

"You'll never be my equal, dear."

"Not that I wish to criticize,

but golf, you see, was meant for guys.”

It proved to be, in time ahead,

the dumbest thing I ever said.

We ventured out one recent day,

another round of golf to play;

A sad and sorry eighteen holes

in which we seemed to reverse roles.

Her drives were great, her chips were swell,

and on the green, she did excel.

While all I did was hook and slice,

and say some things that aren't so nice.

Life is real, life is tough,

it's an eternity in the rough.

At least it felt that way to me,

as I lost on holes one, two, & three.

Then went from bad to worse, you know,

as she kept playing like a pro.

And so I said on number four,

"Let's just have fun and not keep score."

On number five, she hit a tree,

I felt a secret rush of glee,

but golf is just a brutal joke,

her ball did a bounce from pine to oak,

and volleyed off a rock or two,

and as it rolled along, wings it grew.

The oddest shot I'd ever seen,

it wobbled up onto the green.

On six, aha, I hit a drive!

As if at last I'd come alive;

so high, so swift, so far, so fine,

onto the fairway of number nine.

I struggled on and on, you see,

while she said patronizing things to me,

Like: "Take your time, just take it slow,

'I'll teach you everything I know, "

On it went, that golfing slaughter,

I hit a few into the water.

Then, a beaten, bullied chap,

I hit another into a trap.

Sand flew here and sand flew there,

earthy language filled the air.

But she, ignoring my travails,

and filed her nails,

stood on the green.

I limped along, hole after hole,

no self-respect, no self-control,

moan and groan, curse and mutter,

stamp my foot, throw my putter.

My pride was gone, my ego bruised,

(But she seemed secretly amused)

Next time, the boys I'll surely phone,

or, even better, play alone.

That night I had the oddest dream,

that she was nowhere to be seen.

"Dear Amateur:"

In her place, a note:

"I've gone to play golf on the tour."

I came awake, sad and blue,

she was there, but still I knew,

that life will never be the same,

since I taught my wife the golfing game.

Commodore