Fishing with Ned

Went fishing Saturday with my buddy Ned,

We sat there quiet, barely what was said.

I burned through cigarettes—maybe twenty,

He cracked some beers, yeah, more than plenty,

And all the damn fish might as well be dead.

The sun beat down and cooked his round red face,

I said, “Let’s drift on down, find us a place.”

We floated slow, killing time downstream,

He had to piss—broke the whole damn dream—

And fish cleared out like we’d blown the case.

Then his old lady called from the mall,

Said she was done and ready for it all.

She wanted fish for dinner, fried up nice,

We said no luck, not even once or twice—

Just a waterlogged doll. That’s all.