The prodigal son,
Having spent all his loot,
Came back to his father
And got a new suit.
The son who stayed home
Still got the estate,
But after the taxes
He lived in a crate.
I don't think I'll write about fishing.
The subject has been written out.
Like politics, sex and religion,
The stories are subject to doubt.
I don't think I'll write about fishing.
As sport it's an absolute dud;
You sit in a boat gently snoring
Or you're up to your butt in cold mud.
I don't think I'll write about fishing.
There's certainly no sex appeal.
Impaling a worm is disgusting;
The person who does it, a heel.
The game of golf suggests to me
A droll form of insanity.
People there just keep on knockin'
A little ball of blazing white
On it's senseless, futile flight.
Where it lands becomes most sacred –
Any doubt will faces make red.
The clubs all cost a kingly ransom.
The clothes they wear are rarely handsome.
Keeping score with handicap
Oft reveals a moral gap.
The greens are manicured each day
And treated with Oil of Olay.
Golf is neither play nor work;
It's lawn care that has gone beserk.
The planet Mars has water,
Now says NASA in amazement;
They could've saved the trouble
Just by looking in my basement.
