'Gola Golfin' Blues
I hear them duffers comin'
They're hackin' 'round the turn
And I can't go a golfin'
'Cause I forged my tax return
I'm stuck in 'Gola Prison
And there's a course outside
Tried to make a tee time
but I have been denied.
When I was just a caddy,
Cad' master told me, "Son,
Always carry two bags,
Don't ever carry one,"
Well totin' bags I earned well
But didn't declare the tips
Now my cellmate bends me over
He's givin' me the yips.
I bet there's rich folks ridin',
In them fancy golfin' carts,
They're probably drinkin' Guiness,
And smokin' big cigars,
Its a twilight round their playin',
Almost too dark to see,
But those hacks they keep a-golfin',
And that's what tortures me.
Well, if they freed me from this prison,
If that golfin course was mine,
I'd crush this friggin' Prison,
And build another nine,
Outside this bunker prison,
That's how I'd like to play
I'd let my awful golf swing,
Slice my Blues away.