I’m stood on the tee at Augusta
Wielding my old Wilson Whale
And I’m all in a tizz and a fluster
But I’m hoping my nerve will prevail.

The crowd line the tee to the left of me
There are folk on the right, which is nice
They must be expecting the best of me
They know not of my dangerous slice.

I wish they were standing behind me
So I ask them all nicely to shift
But they said that they wouldn’t mind me
If my drive should go slightly adrift.

So I looked at the ball I had teed up
And I gave it an almighty clout
A space in the crowd was now freed up
As my ball took a bunch of them out.

Their compadres are baying for blood now
Though I’d told them to move to the rear
And my golf reputation is mud now
As I find myself frozen with fear.

But then, thank the Lord, I awaken
It’s all been a horrible dream
My golfing ambition is shaken
But the people are safe it would seem.

The Masters will manage without me
My Whale and my dangerous drive
Though the fans may not know about me
At least they’ll be mostly alive.