If the golfer had his way
He'd be out playing every day.
For, though with talent he's not blessed,
Where golf's concerned he's just obsessed.
He walks for miles with hills to climb,
Losing balls and wasting time.
Carting clubs round in a trolley,
Looking like a flaming wally
In his cap and silly pants.
Trying to hold the perfect stance.
This poor, deluded, simple soul
Gets cricket scores on every hole
And still the idiot won't give up
He thinks one day he'll win "the Cup"
And even though his games erratic
Like every other golf fanatic
He boasts he's got a handicap.
Its true, he has, he's bloody crap.