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Black Uncle Remus

de Loudon Wainwright III

In this game you've got eighteen holes
To shoot your best somehow
Where have all my divots gone
I'm in the back nine now
I got to move on down to that next fairway
Up to that flapping flag
There's a storm formin' overhead
I got to shoulder up that bag

Shoulder up that bag
Shoulder up that bag
Got to move on down to that next fairway
Up to that flapping flag

I used to tote my daddy's bag
When i was a boy
I saw him sweat and i heard him swear
But sometimes he'd whoop for joy
Golf clubs are made of wood and iron
No, no, no, they are not magic wands
And balls fall into sand traps
And balls drop into ponds

Balls drop into ponds
Balls drop into ponds
Golf clubs are made of wood and iron
No they are not magic wands

I'm walkin' around with these spiked shoes on
Oh it feels a little obscene
Mother nature with a manicure
Up here on this green
Oh i don't know about you but i got to have me a few
When we get to that clubhouse bar
It's my reward for this scorecard
I'm way over par

I'm way over par
I'm way over par
I don't know about you
I got to drink me few
When we get to that clubhouse bar

In this game you got eighteen holes
To shoot your best somehow
Where have all my divots gone
I'm in the back nine now

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