-> "He’s Decked, Hit His Head, Stunned, It’s Harold!"
Original Song Title:
"The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald"
Parody Song Title:
"He’s Decked, Hit His Head, Stunned, It’s Harold!"
To first tee I’ve gone, to play marvelous golf round
On the big course they call Ditch of Gloomy
Tough course it brings dread, always gets in my head
Hop-ing today it will not consume me
With my old left shoulder sore, quickly I had to yell “Fore!”
Hit his head, stunned, it’s Harold! Prayed: help me!
Oh God what’d I do? I had beaned him it’s true
As he lay there, I trembled, no stirring
Oh Harold, I cried ‘cause I thought that he’d died
Wond’ring how I’d tell wife in Wisconsin
Then he sat straight up so, I thought, ‘Boy, that was close’
Not a clue had old Harold, I reasoned
Some brooding concerns, but then Harold, he con-firms
He does not fully re-call the beaning
So gamely I tried, coc-o-nut bell rang
‘Cause sometimes you know that they’ll be fallin’
I heave a deep sigh and I prattle, play round
And over the golf ball I’m flailing
On hole number two, I did hit one askew
To the ditch of new zip code, I'm reelin’
Didn’t look great and I’ll prob-a-bly make eight
Now my ball in the water is splashin’
Then the next hole came I managed to drain
A long putt for a birdie, pain lessened
When number four came, the old hook came on back
Strayin’ well in the deep rough and weeds, aah!
Made seven, three, then the rain hammered my skin
Key then carry for you good umbrell-a
But mine was mired in, my trunk, water drummin’ chin
And the golf trip so new was in peril
But later got bright, shanked ball right, went out of sight
Same old dreck that beaned head, stunned, hit Harold
Does anyone know where the love of golf goes?
When the tide turns and golf game goes sour
The hackers all say their bad shots always spray
And they put fifteen more strokes behind ‘em
My putt did hit cup but then skittered aside
Then went for broke, deep and hit farther
And all that remains is two twenty and change
So I tried, but I’m done, hit the water
Everyone’s goal: superior swing
In the booms of your big drive’s expansions
No Mulligan schemes, game’s less than it seems
The dry land fair-ways are for scor-in'
And don't fear to go, take on par, be low
Rake in what stakes beery can tender
If the irons float low, then the res-cue club will go
You'll prevail in the tourney of members
On the final hole, ball is deployed, well placed
But the slipp’ry club sailed for the clubhouse
The club still climbed and it spun ninety nine times
Sum-bitch! Lands on the fed up, pissed Harold!
The legend lives on 'bout old Harold, what he'd done
At the big lake on course Ditch of Gloomy
Hilarious they said, prefer calling it dread
Went in lake, my clubs, Harold got surly!
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|How Funny: ||4.4|
|Overall Rating: ||4.6|
|Total Votes: ||12|
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