The Golf Fiend – Golf Poem

The Golf Fiend – Golf Poem

THE GOLF FIEND 

HE is seldom home to supper; if he does come, he is late; 
The kitchen floor needs painting but the kitchen floor must wait. 

The screens are in the attic and the storm door should come off, 
But father's only rooming here, now that he's playing golf. 

He's ceased to dig the garden and he's packed the tools away ; 
He says he'll hire a man to plant the flowers we want some day.
 
At those who toil for exercise he's started in to scoff. 
The stylish way to get it, father says, is playing golf. 

He used to call men foolish when they raved about the links, 
But since he's been converted, it's a splendid game, he thinks.
 
He is out there every Sunday and each afternoon he's off; 
Ma's a widow and we're orphans since he started playing golf. 

by Anonymous, from the 1921 collection, Lyrics of the Links