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?
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