Why are they angling on the pier,
their gear well taken care off:
they know of fiberglass and throwing line,
of spods and rods, harpoons and hooks,
they only use real feathers,
and have the best of bait,
real flies, some worms, some dough,
and they wear fancy wellingtons
and mackintoshes in rain, in wind,
in autumn fog, for days, for nights, forever,
enduring cold and loneliness,
in misery and pain, in need,
their newspapers soon soaked,
beer running out, their cigarettes
all wet and damp and swollen are their feet,
arthritis and bronchitis felt,
and fish won’t bite, they get provoked,
and worms escape, and oh how horrible
it altogether smells,
when only twenty yards away
there is a cosy fish and chips?
With haddock on a sale and all!
Because they’re men.
Why else?
😉
Poet's Corner 