On the shores of farm ponds,
and at the edges of lakes,
this is where my memory,
frequently does it take,

Fishing rod in hand,
I walk behind my dad,
casting out for bass,
none of this is sad.

Prowling through the mud,
throwing rocks and catching fish,
if only I could go back here,
sometimes do I wish.

So instead I grab the phone,
and give my dad a call,
tell him dates of the fishing trip,
we take together every fall.