Dear Lord and Father of Mankind
Forgive our garish style;
Reclothe us in more neutral hues
When we combine our tartan trews
With sweaters from Argyll,
With sweaters from Argyll.
In simple clothes like pros of old,
Our forebears would have seen,
Who on the course may have been bold
Yet still avoided pink with gold
And never wore lime green,
And never wore lime green.
So when sartorial pride attacks
And golfer turns to clown,
With paisley patterns on our slacks,
Or shirts made out of Union Jacks,
May lightning strike us down,
May lightning strike us down!