The Devil, She Wears FootJoy
By Purgatory Chip
Here’s the gospel according to Chip, boys,
the devil doesn’t wear Prada, she wears FootJoy.
24 hours removed from my latest golf disaster,
this was the cruel and painful morning after.
I was struggling out on the range,
my swing foreign and strange.
I was sweating and cursing like a paroled Raider fan.
when she walked up and said, woo man.
Sarcastic and condescending, she was accessorized to the max,
she likened my swing to wielding an axe.
Are you swatting flies or digging a hole,
maybe this game isn’t for you, do you bowl?
Your alignment is off, your plane isn’t right,
I can’t unsee this mess, how will I sleep tonight?
Do yourself a favor and give up this game,
let’s face it, your prospects are quite lame.
I’m sorry I don’t think we’ve met,
did my ex-wife send you, that’s my bet?
While I know her professionally, I from a place further below,
let me take this time to malign you and say hello.
Where I come from, it's my job to bring the heat,
make things uncomfortable, maybe burn your seat.
Where is this place you know so well,
judging by your sunny personality, it sounds like hell.
I’m here to fix your game, that’s my goal,
better golf for the price of your soul.
You seem like the real deal,
let’s play for it, how’s that feel?
Play me straight up,
who are you, Costner from ‘Tin Cup’?
I gave Tiger two and he’s no joke,
you want to play me without a stroke?
The match was close, each shot mattered,
on 18 she misjudged the distance and into the water she splattered.
This morning you couldn’t find your game with a range finder,
who would have known you were such a grinder?
Your soul's still intact, but a quota I must meet still,
I guess I’ll wait for the US Open and an implosion from Phil.