These holidays reek, they're about
nothing but money,
They make me feel sullen and gloomy
St. Patrick ain't funny, nor that Easter Bunny,
And Valentine's Day can just chew me.
I'm sick of this swinging and putting and pitching,
And Santa (that fat drunken hack).
I'll pilfer his costume and pick out the stitching,
And have Blitzen pinch loaves in his sack.
Those pros down in Proville are making me heave,
Their cheating percentage is zero.
I like the fudgers, and mean nasty nudgers
(That man Barry Bonds is my hero).
Today's players are wholesome and strong and athletic
(Apart from John Daly and Lumpster).
Somehow my sandwich seems really pathetic
As they have their lunch brought in a Dumpster.
My heart has been shriveling; it's down two full sizes,
But my liver's as small as Wyoming.
If I had my way there'd be nickel first prizes,
And the commissioner's mouth would be foaming.
This kindness, this giving, this charity crap,
Much more and I'll soon lose my lunch!
I need some dirt, a real scandalous flap,
From this horribly generous bunch.
See, this year I'm meaner (and sober to boot!)
Like the Grinch on top of Mt. Chunkit.
So Sergio Garcia can kiss my pitoot
And into my pool he can dunk it.
I'd float in his pool wearing only a thong,
With butter my shoulders he'd rub.
I'd steal Ernie's crutches (now that's just plain wrong)
And swap Goosen's and Mickelson's clubs.
From Vijay I'd steal the hard skin on his hands,
And all of the balls on his range.
I'd fill up his bunkers with rubberized sand,
(Though even McCord thinks that's strange).
And Wadkins, pleeease, just don't get me started,
He's a blowhard at all our expense.
With the look on his face you'd think Oosty farted
Or Clampett had suddenly made sense.
On the upside he drives all the players berserk,
Which actually makes me more cheerful.
I can carry him easily, take him to work,
Though he wriggles and gives me an earful.
And Tiger, I slithered my way to his vault
To make off with a few of his millions.
I knew that I shouldn't, it was all my own fault,
(That kick in the plums from Steve Williams).
Hang on; I think that this poem may have worked!
Though it pains me to have to confess.
That always, deep in my heart there has lurked
The truth, and that is I'm blessed.
For golfers will always be different I know,
You can tell from the Drive to a Billion.
The more I'm around them the more it just shows
That I have one job in a million.
If you've ever wanted to send David Feherty a question or comment, here's your chance! David is putting down his mike to answer your E-mails in his mailbag column for GOLFONLINE.
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