All day he'd stay b'neath his log, 
   Or down amongst the stringy grass, 
And tell how big and shrewd he was, 
   To all his friends--the little bass.

Sometimes he'd tell  how, now and then, 
   He'd take a spinner, fly, 'r spoon 
To build the anglers' hopes up high
   When bass quit hittin' . . . long 'bout noon.

An' then tell how he'd leap and fight,
   An' when his friends were all agog, 
He'd tell them how he'd break the line,
   Or foul the leader on a log.

And other times he'd tell them things
   To get them all enthused.
For instance, all the anglers' names,
   An' favorite lures each used.

But one day when he was hungry,
   An' just waiting 'neath his log, 
For something nice and “good ta eat,”
   A minner, bug, 'r worm, 'r frog,

He heard a noise from up above
   And sneaked out far enough to look 
And see if something good to eat
   Had dropped into his little brook.

At first, he said: “It's jist a fly!”
   An' thought, perhaps, he'd best retreat.
But when its wings and fore legs moved,
   He said: “I'd bet that's good ta eat!”

So up went Bronzeback, big as life, 
   An' gulped that bug down right away,
But when he turned to go back down, 
   Found he was hooked . . . an' hooked to stay.

Well, the moral of this poem, I guess, 
   Is folks don't get too big to fall, 
For there's Ol' Bronzeback, sure enough,
   Just hangin', hangin' on my wall.