An Icthyocentennial

What is the fascination men have for a fish,
That urge to seduce it, entice it to strike
Alluring devices, that satisfies the wish
For a full creel of brown bass, bluegill or pike?

They may gather at dawn to shiver with the cold,
To warm up the schooner, that plies the deep seas
For finny mysteries, a brochure had foretold,
Twelve dollars per head on a fish captain's tease!

I see them on bridges in the heat of the day
Squatting on upturned cans, hush puppies close by,
Waiting for a catfish big enough to filet
With a tall tale to tell, watching the deep-fry.

Some risk rabid mosquitoes rampaging at dusk,
Anointed with repellant, cuffs buttoned tight,
In hand, the net, poles and tackle box, with a brusque
"Wish me luck", they're off that fearsome fish to fight!

It seems an analyst could make something of this
If anglers were husbands needing a day out;
But some aren't, they do it in simpleminded bliss,
Groundwork for fish tales their expertise will flout.

As for me and fishing, I look at it this way,
If I must buy a boat, all that fishing gear,
Put wiggling things on hooks to enjoy any day,
I'll defer fish till my centennial year!

--H. Arlequin 



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