It's a warm, Sunday morning with a nice cool breeze
You pull up to the first tee box and wonder what club you need
150 yards, why that’s a seven iron indeed
One easy stroke and the ball; it will fly
But rather you choke and into the pond it shall die
You throw your club and it gets stuck in a tree
But that doesn't matter ‘cause you're at the next tee
And now you can swing with your mind worry free
But you slice the ball
And swiftly does it fall
Into the drink
And it put you on the brink
Of snapping your club in two.
You struggle for the next fifteen holes
And arrive at number 18 with the utmost despair
For 68 is the par
But your score has gone much too far.
You line up your shot and take your stance
But you know that you have no chance.
You hit it hard and you hit it well,
But you chose the wrong club
And the ball
Oh, did it fall
40 yards short of the green.
You tried for par but got nothing of the sort
And you left with a triple bogey.
Now your clubs are in the trash
And you made a dash
To get some bowling shoes.