What on earth: where the golf ball turns into a poem mid stream.

Why oh children of mine is there a broken golf ball under my desk?
What on earth were you thinking?
Is this like a present from the cat?

Did you sneak up on it, pounce and rip its life from its little white dimpled skin, leaving it under my desk as an offering of love?

Or is it merely detritus from your daily wanderings, forgotten, cast aside only to be a distant memory in dreams of youthful freedom?