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In this game you've got eighteen holes |
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To shoot your best somehow |
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Where have all my divots gone |
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I'm in the back nine now |
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I got to move on down to that next fairway |
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Up to that flapping flag |
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There's a storm formin' overhead |
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I got to shoulder up that bag |
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Shoulder up that bag |
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Shoulder up that bag |
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Got to move on down to that next fairway |
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Up to that flapping flag |
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I used to tote my daddy's bag |
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When I was a boy |
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I saw him sweat and I heard him swear |
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But sometimes he'd whoop for joy |
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Golf clubs are made of wood and iron |
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No, no, no, they are not magic wands |
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And balls fall into sand traps |
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And balls drop into ponds |
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Balls drop into ponds |
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Balls drop into ponds |
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Golf clubs are made of wood and iron |
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No they are not magic wands |
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I'm walkin' around with these spiked shoes on |
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Oh it feels a little obscene |
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Mother nature with a manicure |
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Up here on this green |
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Oh I don't know about you but I got to have me a few |
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When we get to that clubhouse bar |
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It's my reward for this scorecard |
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I'm way over par |
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I'm way over par |
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I'm way over par |
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I don't know about you |
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I got to drink me few |
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When we get to that clubhouse bar |
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In this game you got eighteen holes |
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To shoot your best somehow |
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Where have all my divots gone |
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I'm in the back nine now |