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The dawn was approaching, not a breath of air blew,
And the bass should be bitin', at the edge of the slough.

I gathered my tackle and shoved in the boat,
Not knowing whether, the blamed thing would float.

A pull on the kicker, got old Betsy churnin',
To the home of the large-mouth, for which i'd been yearnin'.

The boat snaked on through, the lily-pad carpet,
Toward an old sunken log, as black as a tarpit.

Don't ask me how, but I knew he'd be there,
Just awaitin' to be pulled, from his watery lair.

With a flick of the wrist, the lure sped toward the log,
Which stuck from the water, at the edge of the bog.

The silence was shattered, as the bass took the bait.
You could see in his eyes, the feeling of hate.

I had him hooked firmly, in the side of the lip,
And he couldn't get loose, no matter how he should flip.

I guessed that he'd weigh, no less than twelve pounds,
For he was straining my tackle, beyond all its' bounds.

An hour went by, but he fought just as strong.
He had to give in, 'cause I couldn't last long.

Finally the old lunker, turned on it's side,
And slid in the net, with mouth opened wide.

But after I weighed him, I found to my plight,
He'd lost over ten pounds, during this long and hard fight!

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