Saw the Golf Boyz video.  That would be the song recorded by Ben Crane, Ricky Fowler, Hunter Mahan and Bubba Watson.  Nice effort but they need better lyrics.  Here are some (from my forthcoming book) that I’m happy to provide:


Pop it and flop it and draw it and fade it

If you see a great shot then you know that I made it.

At the first tee I stroll up and rip her

But you get in more trouble than the Titanic skipper.

You’re doing more slicing than a delicatessen

I’m firing at pins like I’m Smith and Wesson.

Your scores are so large you need a mathematician

My ball does more checkups than a pediatrician.

Chorus: Ooooh, yeah, watch ‘em drop! Watch ‘em drop!

Ohhhh, yeah, watch ‘em drop! Watch ‘em drop!

Yeah, you got short game, it’s your drive off the tee

But I’ve got Lefty taking lessons from me.

It’s always the short grass for me and my Titleist

But you’re off in the woods like a wacko survivalist.

Fazio, Dye can’t build nothing to faze me

My game has some shots that even amaze me.

You’re hackin’ up divots like you huntin’ for gophers

I’m so fly in my Footjoys they’re like Gucci loafers.

( Chorus)

I bagged more birdies than James Audubon

I’ll show you no  mercy, my game’s always on.

You always hit first except from the tee box

You laggin’ three footers like a schoolgirl in kneesox.

My swing is like butter because I’m always relaxin’

Your downswing is faster than an atomic reaction.

It’s like Christmas at Hallmark: your card’s full of snowmen

Can you keep up with me? The answer is no man.


Your game’s got more hooks than a Japanese trawler

I’m takin you down to your very last dollar.

My putter is hotter than a sidewalk in August,

But you’re blowing up like an angry jihadist.

You want advice on your game, I say look into horseshoes

Get a refund on lessons and all of your club dues.

Will you ever get better? I tell you there’s no way.

Take those clubs you’re abusing and sell ‘em on Ebay.

I got shots so great there’s no forgettin’ ‘em

You just stand in your Dockers doin nothin’ but wettin ‘em.

While I’m bagging birdies you’re bookin’ doubles

Yeah you swingin’ like Freddy: Krueger not Couples.

My shots find the hole like they’re guided by lasers

You twitch on the green like your putter’s a taser.

I make a divot so my ball has back spin,

You hack out trenches soldiers could live in.

Chorus (and fade out)