If it's true, as in verse, only God makes a tree On some fairways He has made too many for me.
For some reason obscure to mere mortals on earth Small acorns grow oak trees from the time of their birth.
Now don't get me wrong, I can still like a tree But not quite as much as they dead stymie me.
For some reason, a complete mystery to all So often there's a tree in front of my ball.
Yes, obstructions are common when you hit it off line And trees sure look lovely in your yard or mine.
I do appreciate nature in all of its forms Don't bore me with ozone and oxygen norms.
I mostly love pine trees in the wide open spaces And X mas trees too, except in strange places.
Now, recall for a moment, that dogleg on three Is that a sane corner to be growing a tree?
Each time that my ball finds the base of its trunk I study the shot while in a blue funk.
It's too high to hit over, too wide for a cut So low to the ground that you can't even putt.
As a lover of trees I know it's not gracious To wish for less trees to make fairways more spacious.
It's at least a full wedge to get to the green I've cursed that old tree with comments obscene.
There's no way around it, I don't hit a draw Instead of my wedge, I need a chain saw!
