Rain, hail, sleet or snaw,
You'll see the Bard oot there hittin' the wee white ba'.
Heathaland, links, nungate fields or heather,
It's no' made easy by the bleedin' Scottish weather.
I hook it left, I slice it right,
But I'll still be oot frae mornin' 'til night.
(why am I sae late to MoFC?)
I cuss te ba' and ask, "Whit's the matter?"
The clubhouse wit shouts, "Play a balata!"
Persimmon woods, laminated tae,
Metal heids are noo the order o' the day.
If we can jist keep up wi' radio technology,
We micht no' be best, but we'll sure look bonnie,
ta ba strait and in tae hole
Obsessed wi' length and expert analysis,
We cannae swing because o' paralysis.
(bae that's the hooch as well).
Tiger, Monty, Seve an' aw,
How dae they easily hit the ba'?
(Because they ain't half paralytic)
Frustration, anger, rage, pleasure an' sorrow,
I'll aw be oot there again tomorrow.
The ex complains, "It's damagin' yur health!"
Does she think I;m oot there enjoyin' murself?
She's afar, I'mma here, North Berwick, land of Nungate
me golf not exactly on a links lined plate.