Just as fish hang in scales, their weight to be
Determined by the pull of gravity,
Their sales reflect what fishmongers must see
Belongs to a season’s inclemency.
And you propose to reason so…to fish!
To me, it’s a calamity, served cold,
Like a revenge plot that becalms a wish
instead of a smile winsome, wise and bold.
But wait, a tug. The line is running out!
Saint Walton preserve us, I may be hooked
on my own petard. By god, it’s a trout
just in season, declaimed, weighed, booked.
The poem makes catch-and-release seem pale
next to my trout, so much more like a whale.