The rippling of the waters as it flows through the brooks,
Watching and waiting for a fish to cook.
Wishing and fishing for a trout,
Wasn't long till I pulled one out.
I go fishing here all the time,
With a girlfriend of mine.
No one knows of this place,
But me and a girl called Grace,
If I let word out,
There'll be no more fishing trout.
Cause folks would come from miles around,
To fish at that brook near town.
Comments about this poem (Camping Time by Fraser MacLean )
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