With its four-beat
Putt-putt, putt-putt
Continental rhythm
Putt-putt, putt-putt
It plows and putts
Putt-putt, putt-putt
It pulls and putts
Putt-putt, putt-putt
It plants and putts
Putt-putt, putt-putt
It digs and putts
Putt-putt, putt-putt
It mows and putts
Putt-putt, putt-putt
It rakes and putts
Putt-putt, putt-putt
It bales and putts
Putt-putt, putt-putt
A little oil, a little gas
Putt-putt, putt-putt
A sweet machine
Putt-putt, putt-putt
Upon the grass
Putt-putt, putt-putt
When all is done
Putt-putt, putt-putt
And all is said
Putt-putt, putt-putt
There’s nothing like
Putt-putt, putt-putt
Massey-Ferguson red
Putt-putt, putt-putt!

I was her mean motor scooter
Until a big hunky Harley came along.
I took her out putt-putting
There didn’t seem to be anything wrong
But for a just a little bit more torque
I was left behind ******* in smoke.
When she saw his big old motor
My Cushman eagle looked like a joke.

Putt, putt, putt…
But, but, but…
I really thought I had it made
And now I’m sitting in the shade
On the side of a lonely street.
The race was run and I got beat.

I asked her to a picture show
She smiled and said that would be fine.
Come the day we meant to go
She made and excuse that felt like a line.
She said she had an ailing aunt
But later I saw her get off of his hog.
Now, I feel just like scooter trash,
An unsightly little bump on a log.

Putt, putt, putt…
But, but, but…
I really thought I had it made
And now I’m sitting in the shade
On the side of a lonely street.
The race was run and I got beat.

Don’t get me wrong about her
I don’t really mean to put her down,
She just wanted a bigger deal
With which to tool around the town.
When she sat rode behind me
I really should have guessed you see
She made a kind of vrooming sound
Like I was going ninety three.

Putt, putt, putt…
But, but, but…
I really thought I had it made
And now I’m sitting in the shade
On the side of a lonely street.
The race was run and I got beat.

i thought it’d be poetic
to leave you the same way i found you,
with a contentless text—
a simple entered space
(i knew you wouldn’t catch it)
although you seem to be someone
who thinks very deeply about all someones,
your thoughts about me are puddles
disguised as over-complimenting oceans

and i really do not know
what i am or what i’ve been to you,
or if i’ll be able to keep myself away
from you, or why you’d drive hours
to see me in the middle of the night
when you “plan on kissing at least one
girl in the next three months,”
(could care less if it’s me)

"what would i be waiting for," you asked.

i’m barefoot, chasing a train i know
is on tracks that lead away from where
i want and need to be (but i liked the way
it felt when your hand touched mine)

glad i never gave you any piece of my heart,
because you’re the type of boy who’d
rip it to shreds, hide your claws
behind your back, and tell me that
i should’ve seen it coming
(though you would’ve been right)

maybe you’re just bored,
and that’s why you decorate
your skin with ink and don’t care
about whose lips you’ve touched,
and i wish i could figure you out,
wish i could draw a perfect portrait
with my words (or even just
my thoughts) of who you are,
but i won’t pretend i know you

i hate you and your ***** tattoo
(but i don’t really hate you,
i hate the way i let you make me feel.)