Old Methuselah, he took the bait
And then he headed for his hole
The angler, he saw what happened
He frantically reached for his pole

With a mighty heave, he set the hook
And was amazed at what he felt
On the other end of his braided line
A monster had taken his bait of smelt

The reel’s drag screamed and smoked
As the heavy line, it streaked away
Before this contest would be over
His arms and shoulders would dearly pay

The rod, it was bent almost in half
The angler, he held on for dear life
There wasn’t much else he could do
During this time of self-inflicted strife

Old Methuselah, he finally got mad
Decided that he’d had quite enough
He swam under a submerged oak tree
Found a limb both gnarly and tough

Against it he tried to break the line
But the line was new and quite strong
Frustrated, swam out, changed directions
Accelerated, the outcome came before long

With a loud snap the rod it broke
And Methuselah, he again was free
He returned to his favorite hiding place
The hole underneath the big oak tree

Now if a catfish had a trophy room
Methuselah’s would be a site to see
Eighty-six broken rods would adorn
The walls of his hole under that tree

Tuesday, June 21, 2022