The Grass Swollowed My Balls

Sunday morning I hike to the park, with club and balls.
For the technical minded a golf club, 7 iron,
For those interested in balls, 10 little white ones.
So with head held high I walked to the park,
thinking of distance swings and fairways.
The chase is afoot my dear Watson.

Upon the grass I dropped my balls and counted them out.
There were ten, nice white pimple dotted balls.
Like perfected little eggs from a constipated chicken they rested.
I eyed them adoringly.  My balls, my balls a kingdom for a ball!
I nearly shouted.  So began the preparation.
Swing high then swing low sweet number 7 iron.

With some disgrace I was off target.
These balls went willy nilly having a mind of their own.
But it wasn't their fault.  It's all in the swing.
I counted them out took a walk and counted them in again.
My paultry shots splashed in water trodden grass.
Clumps stuck up like recalictrant hair do's.

Another go and I swung again.  Whoosh. Smack.  There she blows.
High in the air.  Then sun light blinded my eyes.  Bounce.
I saw them land.  But better was my stroke this time. Further.
And marching off I went.  Club in hand. Bag at the ready.
To pick up my little white balls.  My lovely little balls.
Alas from the 10, only 5 were found.  Only 5!

Only one explanation come to mind.  This morning the grass was hungry.
It ate my lovelys.  All 5 were gone.  Into the bowels of the earth.
My little white balls eaten.  Swollowed up whole.
They never had a chance.  Those little white balls.  Alive and devoured.
They had become the Sunday morning starter. I prefer toast myself.
Beware, I say hold your balls tight.  For grasslands will take them from sight.