To A Trout

Thou little speckled beauty, festive trout!

     Shall I or shall I not bear thee away

To where the city waits me cold and gray,

Or shall I put my longings all to rout

And release thee e’en as I took you out?

     Small fry indeed, and smaller would thou be

     Didst e’er the red-hot spider compass thee;

A dainty morsel buttered well and browned

If, after frying, thou could aught be found!

Nay, mite, I will not take thee from the drink

I’ll take a drink instead and so not shrink

     From gibe of wife and friend who wait me there

     With appetites ferocious for thy fare;

Goodbye, I’m out about ten plunks, I think

March 4, ‘06

Plunk - Slang for dollar