Fishing with Russians

Apparently I'm on some strange poetry kick. Here's one about the last time my friend Jill and I went fishing...

We sat on a rock under October skies

The water was sparkly and blue to our eyes

Not like the brightest of blues as you’d think,

But more like the blue when the sun starts to sink

Next to our rock was the rock of the Russians

The Russians who never knew I was a Prussian

Prussians and Russians have nothing in common

Except for the love of consuming the salmon

Also the eating of cod and of trout

And trout was the fish that was swimming about

There in the lake with the interesting name

I flung in my line, and the fishes? They came

They came for me; for my friend, they did not

Five rainbows is the total I caught

But as for her, her line was immune

To the desirable act of the rainbows to swoon

Tug, tug, nibble, nibble, yank, yank, yank

Every ten minutes I reeled fish that stank

Stinky, so smelly, yet so nice to taste

I vowed that none of my catch would know waste

None of my catch would escape from the grave

Which is my belly. Forever enslaved

Would be the nutrients found in the meat

Oh! What a wondrous, splendiferous treat!

I would, of course, share my catch with my pal

To greedily hoard would make me a rude gal

I promised to offer a meal on some cushions

Now please park your thoughts right back next to the Russians

They looked in my pail, and also in hers

Then talked to each other in linguistic whirrs

Then talked to us, not mostly to me

They asked my friend if she would like to be

The recipient of all the trout they did snatch

Of their generosity there was no match

Not at that lake throughout all that day

Yea, there was nobody kinder than they

Humbly accept the fish, she truly did

Gratitude tears in a cup need a lid

Okay, she did not quite cry the Nile River

But from that day on we were both thankful livers

The autumn sky blackened, the stars did arrive

It was a lovely time to be alive

Packed up the tackle box, toted the pails

We left the lake that’s devoid of all whales

And traversed afar back to the good kitchen

To dissect and gut all the things we’d been fishin’

To cook and to prep and to eat Oncorhynchus

I don’t really know what rhymes with that