Toby Keith's Family Brought to Tears During CMT Awards Tribute

About the Song

In the realm of country music, Toby Keith stands as a towering figure, a true American icon. Renowned for his gritty anthems and patriotic ballads, Keith has captivated audiences for decades with his honest storytelling and down-to-earth persona. Among his vast repertoire of hits, one song stands out as a humorous and relatable ode to the struggles of the average golfer: “Shitty Golfer.”

Released in 2017 as part of Keith’s album The Bus Songs, “Shitty Golfer” is a lighthearted romp through the frustrations and mishaps that plague even the most seasoned golf enthusiasts. With its catchy melody and Keith’s signature twang, the song has become a favorite among golfers of all skill levels, providing a much-needed dose of camaraderie and laughter to a sport that can often be as challenging as it is rewarding.

The song’s lyrics paint a vivid picture of a golfer struggling to make par, slicing his drives into the woods, and duffing his chips into the sand. Keith’s self-deprecating humor shines through as he recounts his own golfing woes, admitting that he’s “no Tiger Woods” and that his game is more “hit and pray” than skill and precision.

Despite his struggles, the narrator of the song never loses his love for the game. He acknowledges that golf is “not for the faint of heart” but insists that it’s worth the effort, even for those who are more likely to find themselves in the rough than on the fairway.

The chorus of “Shitty Golfer” is a rallying cry for all those who have ever picked up a club and experienced the frustration of a missed putt or a wayward shot. Keith sings, “There’s a whole lotta folks like me out there / Who ain’t no good at golf, I swear / But we love it just the same / Even though we’re a shitty golfer’s shame.”

“Shitty Golfer” is more than just a funny song about a bad golfer; it’s a celebration of the camaraderie and shared experiences that make golf such a popular pastime. It’s a reminder that even the most skilled players have their bad days, and that the true joy of the game lies not in perfection but in the challenge and the shared experience.

So, the next time you find yourself hacking your way through the woods or three-putting from the green, remember that you’re not alone. There’s a whole community of “shitty golfers” out there who share your pain and your passion for the game. And if you happen to stumble across Toby Keith on the course, be sure to buy him a beer and commiserate over a round of your “not-so-great” golf.Toby Keith Thanks His Fans for the Love and Support

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Lyrics: Shitty Golfer

I’m a shitty golfer, you can ask my wife
I’ve been out there hackin’ every day of my life
I got the shorts and all the plaid sweaters
And new taylormade driver didn’t make me any betterMan, I hit ’em fat and I hit ’em thin
I roll ’em in the bunker’s man, I hit ’em again
Slice ’em in the bushes, crank ’em in a creek
I popped that sucker up and hooked it out in the streetYeah, I’m 245 right down the middle
And I’ll miss the green, to the left just a little
Chili dip a wedge, and put it all together
Hit that son of a bitch right up there in the leather
If you call that good, and let me press on the side
You can put me down for a fiveHey, I’m a shitty golfer, most of us are
But we carry our clubs in the back of our cars
What else you gonna do when you’re out of town
And you need to waste a whole day and shoot another roundMan, I played Augusta, and I played Pebble Beach
And one time at Sawgrass I shot 83
If I live long enough to be 88
I think I’ll celebrate it by shooting my age

Yeah, I’m 245 right down the middle
And I’ll miss the green, to the left just a little
Chili dip a wedge, and put it all together
Hit that son of a bitch right up there in the leather
If you call that good, and let me press on the side
You can put me down for a five, oh yeah
You can put me down for a five

You Missed

LORETTA LYNN COMMANDED THE STAGE FOR MILLIONS BUT FOUND HER ONLY REAL CONVERSATION IN A WILLIE NELSON SONG AFTER HER SON DISAPPEARED BENEATH THE DUCK RIVER. Loretta Lynn lived her life in the glare of spotlights and the noise of stadiums, yet her quietest, most private moments were spent carrying the weight of a loss that never left her. When her son, Jack Benny, failed to return from a ride on the family ranch in 1984, the searchers eventually found his horse alone by the water. Loretta was thousands of miles away, collapsing from the sheer physical exhaustion of a grueling tour schedule when the news finally broke through the static of her celebrity. There was no public grace for a mother who had to bury her child while the world expected her to keep singing the hits. In the aftermath, she turned to Willie Nelson’s “Always on My Mind.” To the public, it was just another popular record on the radio, but to Loretta, the lyrics became a private, recurring letter to the son who vanished in the dark of the river. She repurposed that melody, turning a stranger’s song into a vessel for the words she could no longer speak directly to him. She insisted on marking the anniversary of his death year after year, refusing the silence that usually swallows such tragedies. While the song eventually returned to being just a classic tune for everyone else, for her it remained a tether. When she was finally laid to rest, her obituary listed him among the kin who had gone before, a final acknowledgement that her most enduring grief remained a private dialogue that never truly ended.

“I AM NOT GOING TO SIT AROUND AND WATCH THE NEW KIDS ERASE WHAT WE BUILT,” FARON YOUNG TOLD A FRIEND OVER A GLASS OF CHEAP WHISKEY. His pride was a sharp, jagged instrument that served him well on the road but left him isolated in the end. He chose the silence of his own home over the indignity of performing for an industry that viewed his catalog as an aging relic. For nearly forty years, Faron was the heartbeat of the honky-tonk sound. He was the restless, volatile presence behind hits like “Hello Walls” and “It’s Four in the Morning.” He moved through life with the swagger of a man who owned the room, building businesses and commanding the stage with a sharp, singular voice. He was rarely invisible and never quiet, defining the very character of the country music scene he walked through every single day. But as the industry shifted toward a colder, commercial era, the spotlight started to move. Faron found his world shrinking, his invitations vanishing, and his relevance questioned by a new guard that had little interest in the foundations he laid. He retreated into the solitude of his Nashville home, nursing the physical pain of failing health and the deeper, more corrosive sting of feeling like a relic. The man who had been the life of every party found himself sitting in total, deafening silence. On a December morning, that silence finally became absolute. He died by his own hand at sixty-four, leaving behind a legacy that the establishment would only fully embrace years later. When they finally inducted him into the Hall of Fame, the ceremony was just an empty room for a man who had long since stopped listening. The bronze plaque was hung, but the man had already paid the price of being forgotten while he was still standing right there in the hall.