Stung by an angling fad He took a fishing rod And sallied onto the nearby stream That leaped down a rocky shelf Forming small cascades But running down into plain ground With a placid demure face Uttering soft murmurs sweet
Aiming at the darting Trout That made the still waters into spiraling whirls He swished the rod in the air With the alacrity of a practiced bowler
Looking at the line sinking low He waited for the fish to nibble at the bait Meanwhile, inhaling the salubrious air And watching the limpid movement of the stream
As the hook line went taut in his grip Hopefully he pulled it up
But alas! With no ***** to boast!
Patiently sat he there for hours Like a sculptured God upon a rock Oh! It requires immense patience With adroitness to boot To be an angler, no doubt That sure is a sedate man’s pursuit!
Angling rarely fetches any major luck Except now and then a fresh fish upon one’s plate
Yet following one’s heart’s pursuit Is worth more than all tangible reward it brings!