Redwood and composite head is great for drivin’,
turns the ball into a missile off the line.
Flying, crashing into Redwoods; vocals: yelling!
Slammed into the trees and brush—damn hard to find!

(Game really drives you outta your mind!)

Titleist might light on mire and start to settle;
then I’d have to tear the environs apart.
Deforestation could be the terror;
myrtle murder I might employ.
Then I see that it’s here, near a branch stack.
It now appears my pard is clearly getting parr’d.

Get the bong from golf cart, then load some in and toke up.

Slicing to rough, I find all these redwoods a bane.
Game’s shattered, trouble started when ball embarked
from the tee; I could see the flight sour:
green glade was where the sphere repaired.
I will just have to start a small fire
to burn off herbivorous scourge; I light the spark.

At first it’s merely a little ember that starts,
but then the wind whips up—suddenly the flames arc.
The red turns black as flames are lapping at the bark;
the canopy goes up; sunlight replaces dark.
But soon the smoke chokes out the light. I might remark:
to keep the rough looking like a national park. . .
change game to hoops and then across the parquet dart.