Fishing For Supper

With the sun on my back and my stick float aglow I watched as it trotted along in the flow There’d been little rain so the current was slow I was ready to strike because sometimes you know You can’t know what tells you to hover your hand Just over your reel but you still understand That instinct is what kept the caveman alive And instinct now tells you your float’s gonna dive I could handle a nice tasty trout for my tea For I doubted a salmon was what it would be It could be a grayling, a dace or a chub In which case I’d grab me a bite in the pub My float disappeared as I’d known that it would I lifted my rod and I set the hook good The bend in my rod gave me reason to smile The heaviest fish I had played in a while The fish used the current to help save its skin I showed it who’s boss and it slowly came in Then, guessing I wouldn’t make news on the telly I slipped my net under an old rubber welly