Boring days
They await
Everyone who choose to play
This dreadfully stale course
Use great force, avoid the bait

Easy par
So try for ace
Even beginners throw this far
At least for most the holes
Don't lose your soul in this place

Fifteen tees
Baskets: five.
This course requires no expertise
Simply sling your discs
Low disc loss risk, though fun's deprived

It's not great
But not the worst
Just make sure you can throw straight
Or at least avoid cedar trees
For discs they seize if you're cursed

Fairways Crossed
In this field
Until sanity is lost
While you are forced to wait
It's your fate 'til walkers yield

If soccer's played
Leave in peace
Or else you will be dismayed
And lead to forced casualties
From these casual tees, dying to please the lease

At least it's here
To be bagged
Or practice if your home is near
But it's not really worth a drive
It's contrived and lollygagged

This review
Is the courses third
So hopefully you've gotten the clue
There's better courses around
It's been crowned: a little… -insert word-

Performed to the tune of "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald" by Gordon Lightfoot:

On the west banks of the lake called Wylie,
Is a course with baskets to tees, a ratio of one to three.

The course is named after a dame named Kitts,
The layout is simple and basic, with nary any hits.

It's designed for players, both casual and young,
For more experienced players, few discs will be flung.

For holes one through five, the course follows the trail,
There's a shed past six, so don't a disc lest you sail.

The ceiling on hole seven starts out low,
So, keep your disc straight when you throw.

Around a backstop lies basket number eight,
The shortest hole, ace chances are great.

The holes are short through hole number ten,
At this time, the big throws do begin.

Oh discers, to trail walkers you must yield,
It's not 'til eleven you throw 'cross the field.

To find a negative, one need not look far,
The layout is simple, nay, even subpar.

Each basket has three different hole numbers
To confuse all throws, from hyzers to thumbers.

You walk back and forth, in a small plot of land
So many holes, a design not well-planned.

A layout of nine holes would be preferred,
Be gone confusion, the crossing fairways less blurred.

The nearest town is one called Clover,
Any further, one needn't drive over.

The last hole I played was hole fifteen,
If there were more, by my eyes they were not seen.

I played with putters and a mid-range,
To need the whole bag, now that would be strange.

Benny, Benny, Benny, you reviewed it first,
My attempt at poetry is simply the worst.

Use this course for practice or fun,
As for me, it rates less than one.

-Oh why must this ballfield have a course?
-A course for disc golfers to deplore.
-Hole 1 sucks as do two, three, and four.
-And now I shall play here nevermore

-Holes five, six, and seven, and hole eight
-Are types of holes I severely hate
-Putter tosses back and forth oh Lord.
-And now I shall play here nevermore.

-Too many teepads and baskets five
-Could never ever be worth the drive
-I believe I said it twice before
-I swear I shall play here nevermore

-Open holes crossing in a small field
-Throwing culverins or westside shields
-No point in even keeping my score
-Because I shall play here nevermore

-The church members shouldn't play in groups
-They'll get struck and gain a massive bruise
-Brothers and sisters shall not abhor
-They'll say I shall play here nevermore

-Played nine, and ten, eleven, and then twelve
-"That's it I quit" I give my farewell
-This course shall earn it's only award
-Engraved "I shall play here nevermore"

-Taking off, forget the final six
-Every hole's the same; there is no mix
-The time wasted at a course so poor
-I vow I shall play here nevermore

-So unlock the car and slam the door
-Now stomp the pedal onto the floor
-I feel like I must say it once more
-Again, I shall play here nevermore

-Do NOT play here!
-Do I make myself clear?!?!