It was me and my uncle Buster
having dinner at Pearl's Lunchenette.
The sun was as high
as merange on the pie,
'twas a day that I shant soon forget.
Across from us sat old man Dauber,
addressing a man at his side,
describing a big Flathead Catfish
with his hands more than shoulder width wide.
Known as the town's story stretcher,
and an unending thirst for a beer,
he faced the man he was addressing,
but made sure all the others could hear.
In his story the battle was epic,
poorly hooked, broken pole, tattered line,
an angler's exceptional talent,
a fish in its muscular prime.
Buster looked over his coffee
I read the disgust in his eyes.
He called out to old man Dauber,
"Where'd you catch a catfish of that size?"
Happy to have a new listener,
Dauber grinned as he puffed out his chest,
"In that hole by the Rock Island Rail Road,
and a little bit more to the west."
"Good spot; know it well," agreed Buster.
"I've fished there myself quite a bit.
Once I hooked an old railroad lantern,
and be damned if it wasn't still lit!"
Dauber grimaced and sat back deflated.
Other patrons all grinned in delight.
Buster said, "Take a foot off the Catfish,
I'll be happy to blow out the light."