Camping Time Poem by Fraser MacLean

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.