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.
