The light cascading from the dewy verges
Signals to the guy upon the tee it's sh** or bust
A brand spanking Dunlop screams into the hedgerow
And a luckless flock of starlings bite the dust
The beautifilly maintained expanse of emerald fairway
That glides into the distance has him vexed
He draws an ancient five in a vice-like grip
And ploughs the bugger up from one end to the next
Facing extradition
To the forestry comission
J.C.B. precision
Graces every shot
Pa**ing gulls he's winging
Manically he's swinging
Like an Amphetamine-crazed Terry Scott
A sound, not unlike a squid in a Zan*ssi
Emits from where the bloke has gained in two
A lethal glint of eight-iron, volley of expletives
The flight of the divot's long and true
Chequ'd flares flapping in the wind
Animated, as he chinned the bloke enquiring
If he took any d**
The retaliation of a putter in the spuds
Made him splutter
cracking lips like petrified slugs
Now he seldom ever makes a fuss
With a customized Trevino truss
He's grasped the fundamentals
And his handicap is slowly coming down