It's hard to see the point in it!
(Perhaps it's me)
A dismal afternoon of rain,
A flask of tea.
Beside this murky river now
They sit and wait,
So statuesque and silent
Clutching tins of bait.
All week in offices they sweat
With just one wish -
For Saturday come along
So they can fish.
And now beneath the willows' fringe
They bait their hooks,
Comparing rods and reels and lines
With envious looks.
The lines that fly from whizzing reels
Fall with a plip
And drift upon the surface
Where they bob and dip.
Till, with a **** a wriggling jewel
Is winched ashore
To have its ****** brains bashed out
Upon the floor.
Jan 3, 2010
Jan 3, 2010 at 10:46 AM UTC
It's hard to see the point in it!
(Perhaps it's me)
A dismal afternoon of rain,
A flask of tea.
Beside this murky river now
They sit and wait,
So statuesque and silent
Clutching tins of bait.
All week in offices they sweat
With just one wish -
For Saturday come along
So they can fish.
And now beneath the willows' fringe
They bait their hooks,
Comparing rods and reels and lines
With envious looks.
The lines that fly from whizzing reels
Fall with a plip
And drift upon the surface
Where they bob and dip.
Till, with a **** a wriggling jewel
Is winched ashore
To have its ****** brains bashed out
Upon the floor.
© Marcus Lane 2009
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