Mr. Automatic
His putting never changes It’s a routine that is down pat It doesn’t matter where he is Or where the cup is at. He’s a master of the plumb bob To read the grasses bend A gentle slope just by the cup That’s where the ball should end. Then begins his survey Three hundred sixty degrees A careful look from many points As calmly as you please. Now he has it, he’s got the line It’s time to putt the ball He has a firm and steady stroke The envy of us all. It’s automatic, never fails It just amazes me He never makes a one putt But he’ll get down in two or three.