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Show REAL FISHIN I don't think much of a silken lino, Stretched onto n Jointed polo; That kind o' flshln," It seems to me, Ain't got tho llshln' soul. Glvo mo a tnporlu' slender birch, With a lino o' twisted thread One that I've made myself at home And a pleco ot sinker lead. Take away all your nickol piato reels Your niaclitno mado floaters too; A common cork, or a pleco o' bark Iko Walton made them do. Can you picture old lko with a gold tipped rod. And rigged out llko a swell? A wicker basket under his arm, And n landing not? Oh hell! Across your shoulder's tho placo for your pole, , Not tied up in a bag, I As you trudgo along through thp ' meadow grass l To a hole where tho suckers drag. A can o' worms In tho buck o' your I pants, With your l'lpo nnd a hunk o" bread, A knife to whlttlo a match or two That's. flshin' when all Is said. Harold Gott. |