A Redneck Christmas Fishing Poem

while most Christmas trees still hung with lights,

my then husband, took a break from venison,

now dreaming of hooks, and sinkers and bites.

Into town he went in his old Chevrolet,

to hit all the rich neighborhoods.

A camouflaged redneck bent on his way,

to rid the curbs of their thrown away goods.

In and out of the streets at the helm of his truck,

back firing black smoke in the dawn of the day,

hunting for pines that were as big as bucks.

This is a true story, I sadly can say.

It was a sight to see, and rare are the chances,

that ever again I will have to behold,

Christmas trees in concrete, tied into their branches,

cans of dog food each punched full of tiny holes.

Being married to a redneck, I should have known,

to just pretend I had no clue.

Not intervening until something looked to get blown,

stapled and nailed, set fire to, or glued.

He proudly showed me what he had made,

trees with fish bait, all weighted down.

Soon to be dumped into their watery graves,

and all I could say was, "don't get yourself drowned".

I'm sure the fish were happy to see,

a new place they could lay their beds.

It was a good idea, I had to grudgingly agree,

'cause that season we were happily well fed.