Remember back in the day summer meant late nights, road trips, and what’s that stuff we used to have way back when? Oh yeah, fun. As I am no longer a young, unhindered, handsome specimen of fishing freedom, this summer means a second kid, camp tuitions, unreasonable working conditions (it is unreasonable not to let me have Fridays off to fish), and just to make sure I have fully crashed the responsibility train into the station, a third dog to match my third job. So in honor of my summer of fishing despair and the SCOF “Have A F N Summer Issue,” I have prepared a poem. As you read it please imagine shirtless me playing bongos in a tribal rhythm. Please enjoy:

My jet boat is withering away (I blame the TVA for this as much as myself) and I fear my drift boat might never again see the light of day.
My skills have become dusty and my crotch has turned musty.
The fish of my youth seem a distant memory and for some reason I think I have grown at least one mammary.
Soon I will fish no more as I will be spending most of my time crapping my pants, where was that growth I needed to lance?
For those of you whose youth is still ahead of you, your cow need not moo.
Embrace your irresponsibility, because let’s be honest you are most likely devoid of any marketable ability.

There you have it folks, my first poem since ninth grade. Get out
there and have an f’n summer y’all.

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