BASS FISHING
After three hot days of baking in the scorching Utah sun,
The prospect of a river trip appealed to everyone.
We broke camp at Entrada and headed into town.
A bus would take us way upstream so we could float back down.
Two kayaks and three rubber rafts were pushed out on the water.
Most wanted to get wetter, ‘ere the temperature got hotter.
Each raft had two large buckets. Each raftsman had a paddle.
The paddles were for paddling. The buckets were for battle.
Two rafts were manned by heroes clad in shirts of tasteful gray.
The other by some Oremites, of whom there’s more to say.
In between the rapids, where the rolling waters roared,
We tried to make amusement so we wouldn’t get too bored.
So if an unsuspecting crew was slow at looking back
Their rivals in the other raft would mount a sneak attack.
At a time of inattention, while not picking any fights,
The raft where rode Nick Goddard was assailed by Oremites.
Brother Goddard was a soldier, just returned home from the war,
And wasn’t really in the mood for fighting any more.
Water flew from buckets; the paddling was intense.
We tried hard to repel the force of those aggressive gents.
Our ineffectual paddling didn’t move us from the fray.
The Oremites came up onside and we became their prey.
A coward leaped upon our raft, took hold of Brother Goddard.
Both victim and assailant fell beneath the murky water.
Emerging from the muddy stream, Nick sucked a gulp of air
And grabbed his hat and sun-glasses and shot the jerk a glare.
As he stared down his attacker (who he didn’t feel like kissing),
His sight was out of focus for one sunglass lens was missing.
From the depths of his frustration, Nick roared a mighty yell
That shook the rocky canyon walls and echoed down the dell.
He’d recognized his favorite hole for catching large mouth bass
And pointed out to everyone just what had come to pass.
We floated ‘round the basshole, tight-lipped and reverently,
Knowing that we didn’t spell it with that silent B.
No further skirmishes ensued against the Oremites.
No unkind words were tossed about. There would be no more fights.
We floated rather peacefully, there were no further clashes.
But if we see those guys again, we’re gonna kick their butts.
- May 13, 2005
After three hot days of baking in the scorching Utah sun,
The prospect of a river trip appealed to everyone.
We broke camp at Entrada and headed into town.
A bus would take us way upstream so we could float back down.
Two kayaks and three rubber rafts were pushed out on the water.
Most wanted to get wetter, ‘ere the temperature got hotter.
Each raft had two large buckets. Each raftsman had a paddle.
The paddles were for paddling. The buckets were for battle.
Two rafts were manned by heroes clad in shirts of tasteful gray.
The other by some Oremites, of whom there’s more to say.
In between the rapids, where the rolling waters roared,
We tried to make amusement so we wouldn’t get too bored.
So if an unsuspecting crew was slow at looking back
Their rivals in the other raft would mount a sneak attack.
At a time of inattention, while not picking any fights,
The raft where rode Nick Goddard was assailed by Oremites.
Brother Goddard was a soldier, just returned home from the war,
And wasn’t really in the mood for fighting any more.
Water flew from buckets; the paddling was intense.
We tried hard to repel the force of those aggressive gents.
Our ineffectual paddling didn’t move us from the fray.
The Oremites came up onside and we became their prey.
A coward leaped upon our raft, took hold of Brother Goddard.
Both victim and assailant fell beneath the murky water.
Emerging from the muddy stream, Nick sucked a gulp of air
And grabbed his hat and sun-glasses and shot the jerk a glare.
As he stared down his attacker (who he didn’t feel like kissing),
His sight was out of focus for one sunglass lens was missing.
From the depths of his frustration, Nick roared a mighty yell
That shook the rocky canyon walls and echoed down the dell.
He’d recognized his favorite hole for catching large mouth bass
And pointed out to everyone just what had come to pass.
We floated ‘round the basshole, tight-lipped and reverently,
Knowing that we didn’t spell it with that silent B.
No further skirmishes ensued against the Oremites.
No unkind words were tossed about. There would be no more fights.
We floated rather peacefully, there were no further clashes.
But if we see those guys again, we’re gonna kick their butts.
- May 13, 2005
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