When
I hear a feller wishin’
Fur
a chance tur go a-fishin’
Where
the foamy brook is swishin’
Why
I kinder hev a pity in my heart fur his complaint;
Fur I know the hauntin’ feelin’
Thet goes threw his system stealin’
Uv forbidden brooks revealin’,
An’
I know thet to ignore it would demoralize a saint.
So when comes the fishin’ season,
If you want to save his reason,
An’ perhaps an act uv treason,
Send
him off tur where the brooklet tells its story to the hills;
Where the speckled “butes” are waitin’
With their hungry teeth a-gratin’
An’ I’ll bet without o’er ratin’
It
will cure his festive Walton uv a hundred diffrunt ills!
July
12, ‘99
(A ‘walton’ is someone guarding the wall in old English usage, perhaps as
used here meaning the person forced to remain at work?)
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