The Swan
Unlike most of our population
I’ve never been fond of the swan
It’s aggressive and mean
And frequently seen
Pecking mallards and coots on the pond
It’s nasty, it’s spiteful
Even birds with a rightful
Place on the lake hate its presence
If it took my advice it would vow to be nice
Like the grebes and the wrens and the pheasants
It’s a haughty old bird
Its shape quite absurd, not aero-dynamically favoured
Its neck is too long
It has no sweet song
And its take-off is noisy and laboured
Don’t ask me then to be kind to the pens
Or to show any love for the cobs
I simply can’t stand ‘em
They cruise ‘round in tandem
The ultimate avian snobs
Ker-blooosh!!!
Carping on a windy night
The moon, full circle, shining bright
Ragged pillows scudding ’cross
The inky-blue of Heaven
Not for me the gadgetry
That robs me of the need to see
Crinkled silver cooking-foil
Is what I have grown up with
Yes, it’s true, it’s inefficient
But for forty years it’s been sufficient
I really don’t mind if I blank
I simply like the method.
On such a night there’ll be no clooping
Wild white horses, poplars stooping
Collar up, I revel in
The best that Nature gives us
Opposite, long shadows lay
Across the water where by day
The only souls to venture there
Are those of swan and mallard
But lo! There comes the sound of panic!
The far bank rocked by gusts-titanic!
A brolly slips the bonds of Earth
And spirals for the stars
Shouts of anguish, thumping boots
Frantic angler, startled coots
The errant ‘Steadfast’ plummets down
And sails forever eastward
Rescue-rod in casting hand
He runs pell-mell for that spit of land
That long and narrow gravel-bar
From where he’ll cast his life-line
Sensing imminent success
Faster, faster does he press
Headlong up that narrow bar……
….That dark, deceptive shadow!
Samantha
‘Oh, come on, take me fishing!’
Samantha said to me
But as much as I’d have liked to
Her way distracted me…
Now at that time each waking hour
Was spent at Willow lake
In search of bronze leviathans
A girl I couldn’t take!
No doubt she’d start complaining
About the wind and cold
About the smelly maggots
She knew she’d have to hold…
And so throughout the summer
Her demands were kept at bay
I’d managed thirteen doubles
Without women in the way!
But come the snows of winter –
(A time not of my liking)
I’d often hear her whimper
‘Oh, come on, take me piking!’
Well, what’s a lad supposed to do?
With her I couldn’t reason
So I promised Sammy faithfully
I’d take her out next season…
By the sixteenth day of a blazing June
The girl had somehow changed
Curiously fuller and differently arranged
I must confess I liked it and decided to combine
Those deep primeval yearnings
With that sacred sport of mine….
I bought myself a Brolly-Camp
(‘Samantha – it gets jolly damp’)
then invited my intended to a session
She readily agreed
indeed, she took the lead
Well at least she seemed to give off that impression…
That evening was perfection
She studied the erection –
It’s rigid, ribbed, distinctly bulbous form
She marvelled at its size
With disbelieving eyes
What fun she’d have before the break of dawn!
Laughing like a jackal
She took hold of my tackle
And waved its length to test its steely action
Declaring it a ‘stiffy’
She crawled into the bivvy
For a night of piscatorial satisfaction!
