There was an orange man upon the moor
who walked as if his feet were very sore.
He trampled on the gorse,
a stumbling ox off course.
His makeup made him seem somewhat the whore.
I’m looking for my golf course he did shout,
or otherwise I would not be about.
They took away my job,
the burnished hulk did sob.
And I seem to have a bit of gout.
The golf course here had lately gone to seed.
Without his business trips there was no need.
So he just wandered lost,
complaining of the cost.
A fool untethered’s twice the fool, indeed.
Alas, he stooped and came up with a ball,
which, much like his own, was white and small.
Now I must find a hole,
he screamed to no seen soul,
and, after that, I’m going to build a wall!
