When I was a caddy in seminary school,
There was a parson there
Who'd putt "fore" with this assertion:
Lad, contrition makes you a better player,
Contrition makes you a better player,
Contrition makes you a better player.

Contrition does not make you a better player!

Can you give me some Callaways?
I must find a place to drive,
So I improve my drive.

Can you give me some Titleists?
Maybe I'll lower my score
To less than 2-0-4.

Pater's mitts in her skirts. . .caught caulkin' caddies.
Cannot have sex 'less you do it with "daddies."

There are three main ways to get out of gravel:
One is to cheat and one's to hope an Ave'll make par.
One is to carry it over the hill—
Not Calvary—drop it so you can drill
The white ball home.

Caddies groan, curse, and moan:
"What's in these churchmen's bags? Stones?!"
"Caddying baby, down to be riven."
Priests and booze, Ave blues,
Brethren writhing, knelt in pews.
The monk stayed mum.
He don't talk, but he'll scribble—yes he will.

This is the blessed part of the trap.
Yeah, the sand trap—the blessed part. And I won't slice.
Where'd it lay?
Way, way to the right.
A good shot, huh, huh?
Yeah, I'm proud to make par on this low number.

Success when hills dot the fairways
Means no hook or slice—shoot straight.
Gentile club where papists play.
Hell cometh—I sought par aid.

All my irons are bent and break,
And my balls go in the lake.
Must be better ways to play.
There must be a par padre.
I need more than Callaways.
Maybe I should kneel and pray. Deo.

I sought par aid from priests and nuns,
List'ning to a Te Deum.
Fundament'lists are no fun—
Opus Dei regrets it's not further right.
So uptight!

Queer women with their long dress—bead-counting speed, neck and neck.
Here's the mother with the queen vestment, who's wrestled before
With lyin' late at night. . .
Still quite tight.

My slices must be slighter.
I say, "Deo"; I'm moaning, calling out to god.
Maybe a few Agnus Dei's will help me make par.

Brothers at the bar, where they try sailors—to get them confessed.
Throbbing corpus doors, throbbing measures.
But they don't get far with equivocators.

I kneel sometimes at number 2,
Keeping folks from playing through—
"C'mon! Move it!"—
Calling out to god, Callaways from god?
Deus ex machina. Calling out to god.
Falling where I've trod. Crawling on the sod.
Wallow in a bog!

It won't defeat me! Drives me crazy!

Way too much animus. Don't get cross, dude! Use 8—
It's 50 yards. With a 9 its harder. Sign of cross, dude!

It won't defeat me. It's going. . .it's going straight!

A brother is down—throbbing corpus door, throbbing measure.
Having a good time. He'll be coming strong.
He just made par as a mass debater.

They'll skirt me for pity—the two guys
Who want to do a round or two.
They go around to play through.
"Lucky for you, son, we do not have guns!"

"Watch it!" I yell, "fore!" Golfing pleasure!
I'm gonna drive a hole in one!

If I don't flail, I can with whip this course.
Arise!
But I'll need aid from Christ.