It's been a fair while since we've featured any angling poetry. Wait no more, fellows of the internet angle, for her cometh a poem from the 1892 American Angler by Charles Kent entitled, fittingly, "Fishing."
Fishing
by Charles Kent
The anticipation,
The rapid pulsation,
The fear and the doubt,
That no luck is in store;
The tremendous throbbing,
While watching the bobbing,
Gay, trim little cork
As it drifts into shore.
Fingers are quivering,
Trembling or shivering,
If but for a second
It bobs out of sight:
With pride you are swelling,
For isn't it telling,
Ahead of your comrades,
You've at last got a bite.
Firs you are dubious,
Then are most curious
To find out the breed
Or the size of the thing;
Get nervous and shakey
And hot, cold and quakey,
Lest you fall to the shore,
The prize safely to bring.
You're hopefully wishing
That when you are fishing
Roam the carp and the perch,
Or the pugnacious bass;
You were told so, at least,
And are sure of a feast,
But lo! a small sunfish
You throw on the grass.
With feelings disgusting,
For being so trusting,
As to list to the lies
Of a bucolic lad;
Take a pull at your flask,
While you mentally ask
Old Nick to reserve him
A place with the bad.
-- Dr. Todd
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