Every Saturday he’s at the first tee,
Swinging madly, the ball hits a big tree;
For five long hours he rips up the turf,
He treats his caddie as if he’s a serf;
Hooking and slicing all over the place,
A swinging corkscrew without any grace;
He wastes yet another day with his clubs,
Nothing but frustration with all his flubs;
He’s a golfer -- but why even bother?
His sad son needs to have a real father.