Gone Fishing

They’re sitting by the river with a picnic and a beer, Switching off the world a while and hoping fish are near, Rain is not an obstacle nor other folk a fear, There’s plenty for them all, as long as they come downstream here. Catching one and measuring it, don’t exaggerate, But most of them will be thrown back and not end on a plate, It may be seven hours before it makes it worth the wait, But when a big one’s weighed in, that’s to them when it seems great. Waders and sou’wester’s is the fashion sense for sure, Not as many fishermen, go their way any more, I do believe that catching one’s a thrill that they adore, But it does nothing for me. What’ve I written this rhyme for?