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.