olf no G

Twisted F3


SB

Hey Mr. Titelist – My game is at its pinnacle, what height is this? Could always get better, never lose sight of this. Hot Dogs at the turn, can’t take a bite of it. Can’t clear the water, must hit right of it. Missing 3 footers and explode like dyna-mit. I mean dynamite. Don’t have a marker, I’m a mark it with a dime aight? Lightning strikes, don’t try to be a fire fight. Down wind, gotta try to hit with a higher flight. Shaking over putts, too much sapphire sprite from the prior night.  Good golfers I admire right. Healthy medium b/w fire ice.  Been playing this game my entire life and still don’t understand why some golfers lie despite, this is an honest game, not like flying kites. In the summer time, you can play til’ 9 at night. Opponent makes bogey and the time is right. Never be a quitter, need to find a fight. He hit it left of the stakes defined by white. Two strokes more to the bottom line to type, creative w/the pencil and you sign the hype, but you are lying to yourself, and the lies are white, bc you and I both know you don’t have a minor slice, only way you get good is if you say bye to wife, or you buy the wife some knock off irons, perhaps Titleiced?


Chilly

Oh Ms Titleist I love those dimples, love how u reinforce me
when I keep it simple.  I'll try not to do the over the top jig, or go inside out like I'm flippin' my wig.  I swear that I hit you cause I love you true,  I follow through with every plan I draw up and dream I fade into.  You're my quarter to a bum hun, I love sound of you at the bottom of the cup, done.  I knew when I was young how strong our love be, when I sent you to the woods and you came right back to me.  I know I hurt you bad when I switched to miss Nike,  took the hooks out and tried to slice me, passed down a penalty, set me up with your ugly cousin nxt. Now I Let mizuno tune ya and let vokey get smokey, let ping do his thing and the putter do his hokey pokey. You like a hefty lefty and I'm a tighty whitey and if you clean on the spin milled you bitey bitey straight back to the hole and it's nighty nighty.  Five up on the front like I'm waving as I leave, keep you out in the open others drop you out they sleeves.  Never ask me to cop you that prada, in return I keep quiet 'bout your dead cousin Balata.  I keep off the news cause that shit is depressin' and it's you who taught me all my life's lessons.