Mr. Whiskers

Long endless day, by the Rio Grande, long cane pole, stuck in the sand, Waiting for whiskers, to come swimming by, And see that pole bend, what a natural high. Got a cold shiner bock, glued to my hand, Kicking back, watching, the lay of the land. Under a mesquite, dozing a bit, Just waiting to see, if he's gonna hit. The wind is quiet, it's a hot humid day, Not ideal for fishing, but well, what the hey, I don't have anything better to do, Than to see if whiskers, is gonna come through. There's a tug on the line, and I spill my beer, Reach out for my pole, and fall back on my rear, I get to the pole and I reel in some line, He's a real fighter, but I know he's mine. He breaks the surface, a big channel cat, Blue and grey, and beautIfully fat, He pulls and tugs, and jumps once or twice, The line goes limp, dad burn his darn eyes. I'm going to be sitting under this tree, Till hell freezes over, or at least till I see, My pole bending southward down Mexico way, Not until then, maybe, will I go away. 4/27/10 29 palms ca.