Ballad Of A Fishing Widow Poem by Dahlia Rose

He rises in the morning
Long before the sun.
You know he won't be home again
Until the night has come.

He gathers up his tackle,
And piles up his gear.
At four o'clock in the morning,
You know Saturday is here.

His minnows are his buddies,
His rod is his best friend,
His boat, his prized possession,
It's life, he will defend.

He says he won't be home late
He says that he won't linger
Just like the fish, we swallow it
Hook, line and sinker!

So, all you football widows,
Consider yours, the luck,
For all the fish in Charleston,
I wouldn't give a buck!