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.
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