A Sliding Scale

Men like to fish

     Upon a stream

Where they can wish

     And smoke and dream.

They like to laze

     Upon the job

And dream and gaze

     Upon the bob.

They may be gone

From bungalow

From early morn

     To twilight glow.

They have not caught

     One half a mess

But they have bought

     Much happiness.

One thing about

     A fishing tale,

It has, no doubt,

     A sliding scale.

Six inches spare

     Upon the lake

Will, far from there,

     Twelve inches make.

And so the tale

     Grows every day;

The sliding scale

     Is made to play.

And few, alack!

     Though full of pride,

Refuse, when back,

     To make the slide.

Aug. 8, ‘10

  (published, in ‘Jocosities’, as ‘The Sliding Scale’)