Originally published May 2005
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.
- Author unknown
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