Down by the lake, where cat tails grew thick
with a fishing pole made of a long willow stick
a thermos of coffee a creel and a book
when ever I came there, that's where I'd look
For old Uncle Jerry, his pipe and his pole
at the spot he loved the best, his fishing hole
whistling that secret tune he only knew
just fishing for catfish, catching a few
His hat was of straw his jeans were quite worn
the dock was in sad shape, old and forlorn
but Uncle was happiest when he was there,
fishing the day away never a care
Aunty would holler at dark from the shack
for Uncle to get a move on and get back
as the biscuits were baking and coffee was hot
so get her those fish that she knew he'd have caught
For Aunty knew Uncle loved fish batter fried
with her mashed potatoes and corn on the side
All cooked up that day in the shack on the shore
with it's saggy old porch and it's squeaky screen door
and Uncles old pickup he'd had for so long
all creaky and rusty but still running strong
parked by the porch where his hunting dog lay
by the rocker that Anty napped in everyday
when supper was over and the dishes were through
while Uncle told stories he swore were all true
of the catfish he'd caught in that old fishing hole
though I'd heard them often they never grew dull
I go back sometimes to the lake where it stood
that old fishing shack on the edge of the wood
the memories will flood back the second I do
with longings that childhood never was through
And, old fisherman still took fish from the lake
and carried them home on a line and a stake
like Old Uncle Jerry who I still can see there
just sitting and fishing with never a care.
with a fishing pole made of a long willow stick
a thermos of coffee a creel and a book
when ever I came there, that's where I'd look
For old Uncle Jerry, his pipe and his pole
at the spot he loved the best, his fishing hole
whistling that secret tune he only knew
just fishing for catfish, catching a few
His hat was of straw his jeans were quite worn
the dock was in sad shape, old and forlorn
but Uncle was happiest when he was there,
fishing the day away never a care
Aunty would holler at dark from the shack
for Uncle to get a move on and get back
as the biscuits were baking and coffee was hot
so get her those fish that she knew he'd have caught
For Aunty knew Uncle loved fish batter fried
with her mashed potatoes and corn on the side
All cooked up that day in the shack on the shore
with it's saggy old porch and it's squeaky screen door
and Uncles old pickup he'd had for so long
all creaky and rusty but still running strong
parked by the porch where his hunting dog lay
by the rocker that Anty napped in everyday
when supper was over and the dishes were through
while Uncle told stories he swore were all true
of the catfish he'd caught in that old fishing hole
though I'd heard them often they never grew dull
I go back sometimes to the lake where it stood
that old fishing shack on the edge of the wood
the memories will flood back the second I do
with longings that childhood never was through
And, old fisherman still took fish from the lake
and carried them home on a line and a stake
like Old Uncle Jerry who I still can see there
just sitting and fishing with never a care.
Bronze trophy winner
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