Mr. Automatic


His putting never changes

It’s a routine that is down pat

It doesn’t matter where he is

Or where the cup is at.

He’s a master of the plumb bob

To read the grasses bend

A gentle slope just by the cup

That’s where the ball should end.

Then begins his survey

Three hundred sixty degrees

A careful look from many points

As calmly as you please.

Now he has it, he’s got the line

It’s time to putt the ball

He has a firm and steady stroke

The envy of us all.

It’s automatic, never fails

It just amazes me

He never makes a one putt

But he’ll get down in two or three.

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