Wednesday, June 3, 2009


So you had a lousy round of golf,
your drives were terribly short,
just tell me who would take this game
and turn it into a sport.

You’re awkward in your backswing,
you’re whacking like a klutz,
you’ve gone and insulted the women’s pro
when you asked her to look at your putts

You lost the sock for your driver,
the lake devoured your balls,
you broke six tees, and bruised your knees,
that WAS a nasty fall.

You should’ve taken a mulligan
for dressing in those knickers.
You haven’t got the legs for those,
they caused a lot of snickers.

You landed in each sand trap,
the wind was rather tough,
you hooked and sliced most every shot
that you buried in the rough.

And now you’re in the clubhouse,
you’re at the nineteenth hole,
you’re downing bourbons like they’re scotch,
you’ve surely lost control.

Your clubs have landed in the hearth,
your caddy tried to snag them,
you threaten not to sign his card
if he attempts to bag them.

The woods are near completely gone,
aglow amidst the pyre.
And all the duffers do agree,
you’ve got too many irons in the fire.

No comments:

Post a Comment