golf. what, what?

hello everyone. it is a lovely day in mcfarland. there is only one thing that could possibly make it better. a poem by me. don't worry, i'm not flattering myself.

i HEAR the golf course singing, the varied courses in the 608.
Those of difficulty, of leisure and of doom -- each one different from eachother, as it should be.
The yahara singing hers, as she plays her fairways wide, and her greens ever so shrinking over time -- she owns the target practice. practice makes perfect.
The monona screeches hers, as the water around her par 3's  engulfs the 1/2 island green -- she owns you, throwing what you have into the water.
trappers turn croons her song, as her fairways are ever so narrow, and her blind shots are appauling -- she owns the trees, which own the glasses to your blindness.
chula vista chants her song, as her scottish dunes make one feel as if shes playing the british open -- she owns the hills in which screw you over when your drive is not straight.
stoughton country club screams her hoity-toity song, as her grounds are large, and are filled with difficulty -- she owns your golf clubs after they break in frusteration.
odana whispers her easy little song, so that we can shoot around par -- no comment.
Singing, with public availiability, their difficult or not-so-difficult, melodius songs.