t begins with a majestic drive down the middle
Followed smoothly by an iron to the green
But disappointment is soon clearly seen
It's not a tap in nor a gimmee for birdie much to my chagrin
But a twisting downhill ten footer to get the bastard in
I turn to the bag and pullout the little stick all shiny and clean
I watch the longer putts for info I can glean.
Up and down I eye the distance from ball to hole
While my opponent knowingly removes the pole
I try to hide my shaky knees from my matchmate
Who hopes my putting skill won't decide the contest's fate.
Despite all my careful preparation
The putt goes wildly sliding by
Could it be me who made an error
Or was it that goddamn evil stick of terror.
