Every Sunday Spring or Fall
We like to play with our little balls,
Boys together staunch and true
The merry boys of the Golfing Shoe.
Eyes half closed muscles sore
Morning after the night before
Heads hung over bellies too
The merry boys of the Golfing Shoe.
Up with the lark, out on the green
The finest sight you’ve ever seen.
Golfing bags of blue and red
They’re so heavy we’re half dead.
Swing to the left, swing to the right
See our little balls take flight
Lands about a half mile short
Never mind, we are all good sports.
We strut and swing and strike a pose
With a hole in one just like pros
Swinging clubs and striking balls
Feeling good ‘til a four is called.
Marking cards what a plonker
Someone’s landed in a bunker,
Shaking hands we are all good chaps
Twenty four is our handicap.
Game is over pack our balls
A jolly time was had by all
We talk about the chances missed
Then we all get slightly pissed.