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On a Monday public holiday and with my son home from school,
we organized to go out fishing in a creek where blackfish rule,
and while we’re putting in the boot, our bamboo poles and fishing gear,
I heard a voice from in the street “so what are you pair doing here?”

Bertie Brooke approached us and I said, “we’re going fishing mate,”
and Bertie uttered “are youse now; I suppose it’s way too late,
to drag along an old codger, who doesn’t mind to wet a line,
either that, or go boozing all day long, but fishing would be fine.”

Now Bertie is an army veteran who spent time in a war,
and he’s in his eighties now and never mentions what he saw,
but the whole town knew of Bertie and how he ran the R-S-L,
so taking Bertie fishing with us, could only serve us well.

And as we three plied our fishing trade, Bertie gave young Glen advice,
on how he lured in a blackfish when a young’un once or twice,
and he spoke about the good old days that thankfully are gone,
but I was cringing knowing, that the generation gap is on.

The young boys of these modern days don’t want to hear of horse and carts.
They’re all for war games on computers and seeing grisly parts,
but young Glen was interested, because some homework from his school,
was based upon war history, and old Bertie now is cool.

So while I fished I listened to the questions Glen asked Bert,
and heard solemn answers ‘bout the war, and most appeared to hurt,
then gingerly Glen uttered, “did you kill anybody Mr. Brooke?”
and Bert responded in a somber tone, “probably – I was a cook.”

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