ODE TO A FORTY INCH

It was a cold, dark day that September
On Lake St. Joseph, a date we’ll all remember.

Another party didn’t go out because it was raining
I was pretty cold, but I wasn’t complaining.

Fishing for a forty didn’t seem probable
But with Mike as a guide, anything was possible.

We casted in a bay, then started trolling,
The man who carried his locator in a bag made for bowling.

In the boat were Mike, me and Dave
When I hooked the fish I wasn’t afraid.

When the fish hit the lure, I almost swallowed my cigar,
When I held the fish up, you could see it from afar.

I played the fish just like a pro
No matter what Mike says, he’ll be sad to see me go.

To land the fish Mike could have used a lance
After the fish was landed, I had to change my pants.

Me catching that forty may have been a fluke
I needed a chinstrap to hold down my tuke.

That forty-inch fish, my trip it did make
And that eighteen-pound monster was put back in the lake.

In a couple of years that fish could go forty-two
I could catch it again, the question is could you?

Catching the fish was better than women
Wendy and John don’t let your kids go swimmin’.

Mike will be glad at the end of my jokes
And the camp will be glad to see the end of us blokes.

It was quite an experience to fish for big Jack
But forty being way over twenty-nine, it had to go back.

A fish that big I probably could sell
But if I tried to keep it, Mike would have sent me to hell.
I came here to fish, not to cut bait
That forty was huge, but where is its mate?

After catching a forty what else can I do?
I guess I’ll come back here and get a forty-two.

I’m going to be sad when it’s time to leave
A forty-inch fish is longer than my sleeve.

The entire trip here the wind was a blower
And I’ll bet everyone’s glad this poem is over.

-Bob Bernacchi