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.
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Comments about this poem (Camping Time by Fraser MacLean )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
- Gordon D Wilkinson
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
Harivansh Rai Bachchan
(27 November 1907 – 18 January 2003)
(01 January 1950)
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