Spin, Mister Fisherman, Throw me a line; A fluttering lure of burnished vowel chimes
Bait, braid and bailor - snap, swivel and fly; Dub well your quill, Hook me low, Run me High
‘The reality, however, is that fishing is about the closest you can get to physically experiencing poetry. It is a pursuit based on contemplation and solitude that involves an appreciation of the elements; it is a game of chance, hope, escapism; a step into the murky waters of the unknown. There is little difference between the angler setting forth on a misty dawn and the poet staring at the blank page. Both are hoping for greatness, but will settle for a brief silvery flash of the transcendental brilliance that lies beneath the surface.‘ - Ben Myers
Fishing parlance is a language as complex and arcane as the sport itself. What a happy coincidence to discover that a ‘quill’ in angler-speak refers to a float (or bobber). How ‘bout that? ;)
Why, You ask, Use ten words When two will do? ‘Cos a pair is always eight words too few.
‘"The efficiency of the cleaning solution in liquefying wizards suggested the operation of an antithetical principal, which--" "Did you have to get him started?" Cimorene asked reproachfully.’ - Patricia C. Wrede, Calling On Dragons
Grease Wagon Paper cups, Hot chips and sauce; Sticky fingers dip in for just one more...
I’m thinking ‘grease wagon’ may need some explanation. Not sure whether it’s Ocker, Kiwi, Mainland, or scarfie (i.e. student) lingo but it’s what we’ve always called mobile tuck shops that sell...well, ‘greasies’.
‘I despise formal restaurants. I would much rather eat potato chips on the sidewalk.’ - Werner Herzog
red neon rain spattered pavements teeming; one thousand prismatic shades of meaning
graffiti-laden puddles splish, splosh, splash; as midnight turns to blue, and dawn to ash
‘I walked up, and I walked down, and I walked straight into a delicately dying sky, and finally the sequence of observed and observant things brought me, at my usual eating time, to a street so distant from my usual eating place that I decided to try a restaurant which stood on the fringe of the town. Night had fallen without sound or ceremony when I came out again.’ - Vladimir Nabokov, The Vane Sisters