Fat Jesus

He rolled up late in a golf cart cloud, Tank top flappin’, talkin’ way too loud, Said “Boys, today I’m breakin’ eighty-three,” Then chunked his driver straight into a tree. Got a chili dog tucked under his arm, Swing so ugly it should cause alarm, But every lucky bounce goes his way, Fat Jesus owns the back nine, hey! Pre-Chorus He ain’t fast, he ain’t lean, But he’s livin’ every golfer’s dream! Fat Jesus! King of the greens! Smokin’ drives and eatin’ baked beans! Slicin’ balls into the lake all day, Still somehow makin’ par anyway! Fat Jesus! Raise your cup high! Believes every putt was “divine design!” When he yells “FORE!” better cover your head, ‘Cause somebody’s windshield’s already dead! Got mustard stains on his lucky polo shirt, Talkin’ trash while his knees both hurt, Bought twelve Pro V1s by hole number two, Lost eleven… blamed the morning dew. Dancin’ on the green like he won The Masters, Breath smells like beer and gas station crackers, Every clubhouse waitress knows his name, And every marshal’s tired of his game. Bridge He said “Golf is spiritual, boys, no doubt…” Then missed a two-foot putt and threw his wedge out! Fat Jesus! Lord of the rough! Talkin’ big though his swing looks tough! Drives the cart like a NASCAR race, With SPF fifty on his face! Fat Jesus! Hear the crowd sing! Chicken wings in his golf bag cling! If heaven’s got eighteen holes someday, You know Fat Jesus already paid!