Since the rivers are blown out or are all frozen
And so I admit
Once I've finished my fit:
With large steehead I'll not be posin'
I Love Thee Like a Carp
With these carp I feel a connection
Those lips give me cause for reflection
I can't get enough
Of that scaly stuff
Is it wrong that I have an erection?
Not Fishing on Sunday
My double haul's perfect, my mending inspired
The backing is fresh, the guide has been hired
I work late on Friday, lest I get fired
In housework the next day, I'm totally mired
Now Sunday is here... but I'm too fucking tired.
Your passion is real, your commitment sincere
You've learned how to tie, you've got all the gear
But please don't forget
That your ears are still wet
Since you've fly fished for what? Just one fucking year!
The jacket is "Simms", it fits like a tux
Your Charlton reel costs twelve-hundred bucks
Yet despite all that money
(It's really quite funny)
You don't even realize: your casting still sucks
There once was a fellow from Guilford
Who fished from Rhode Island to Milford
At night he would go
Where the Culvert doth flow
This time from his family, he pilfered.
[Two of these limericks were published in slightly different forms in the Fall 2013 issue of "The Drake" magazine. Thanks to Tom Bie and "The Drake" for putting it out there.]