Fur the Love o' Golf ©

Rain, hail, sleet or snaw,
You'll see us oot there hittin' the wee white ba'.

Parkland, heathland, links or heather,
It's no' made easy by the Scottish weather.

We hook it left, we slice it right,
But we'll still be oot frae mornin' 'til night.

We curse the ba' and ask, "Whit's the matter?"
The clubhouse sage shouts, "Play a balata!"

Persimmon woods, laminated tae,
Metal heids are noo the order o' the day.

If we can jist keep up wi' technology,
We micht no' be best, but we'll sure look bonnie.

Obsessed wi' length and expert analysis,
We cannae swing because o' paralysis.

Tiger, Monty, Seve an' aw,
How dae they easily hit the ba'?

Frustration, anger, rage and sorrow,
We'll aw be oot there again tomorrow.

The wife complains, "It's damagin' yur health!"
Does she think we're oot there enjoyin' oorself?