Watch out for those frog ponds

Maybe you can help me. The Masters golf tournament is in full swing and I'm scrambling to find lyrics to the old Loudon Wainwright III song, "Golfin' Blues'' from his Final Exam album. I thought everything was readily available online these days with one simple click, but all I've come up with -- other than the loose line "watch out for that frog pond'' -- is a chorus that goes like this:

Mr. Jones shot an eagle
Mr. Smith shot a par
Mr. Green shot a bogey
Now he's drinking in the clubhouse bar

I had the privilege of covering The Masters in 2000 and it's one of the highlights of my career. That was the year David Duvall was dialed in and could have won it, but the Green Jacket went instead to Vijay Singh.

(A little-known perk: Media members would put their business cards in a big fish bowl, and a dozen or so lucky names would be drawn. Their prize: A chance to tackle Augusta National on Monday after the tournament. All you had to do was pay for an Augusta caddie (at $100, the best bargain of our lives).

I remember asking a reporter buddy of mine from South Florida (let's call him "Mr. Green'') why he had driven his car up to the tournament instead of flying. "Because I've got my sticks in the trunk, and I'm planning to pull them out on Monday,'' he replied.

He got to play, the lucky bastard. I can't remember how many "frog ponds'' he encountered, but he said he thoroughly enjoyed every one of them.