A fly was his weapon of choice for his trout,
and a reel and a rod which were both very stout.

He kept all he caught with no thought of release,
for grilling, and frying, and some which to freeze.

He opened a fly shop and wrote for the news,
but he never once heard the behind-his-back boos.

For tho he did well at casting and tying,
in some of his stories we felt he was lying.

He ruled over town as the virtual king,
yes, he knew all there was; he knew everything.

His name would come up over counters of beers,
but, he earned no respect from his fly-fishing peers.

He gave the impression around our town,
there wasn't a soul who could fish the man down.

Our best had been tried, but to no avail;
for all of their skills, they all had just failed.

When down from the hills of The Cutthroat Creek
came a grizzled old geezer called Fly-Fishin' Pete.

A challenge was offered and accepted that day,
t'would be Lynneslinger or Pete; and the loser would pay.

So we were all sure that on this fatal date,
our great Lynneslinger had just met his fate.

For the legends of Pete round the stoves had been told,
that to bet on old Pete was like betting on gold.

We all met at Pete's creek, much like a parade,
to watch the two fishers contest at their trade.

The rules were laid out; and with infinite care
each man readied his rod for the fish in it's lair.

First one, then other, would try to his best,
to out do the other; so on went the test.

Then a coin was tossed high in the air to decide,
which flyfishers' skill would be first to be tried.

We watched the coin flip with it's usual whim,
then Pete pointed a finger and said, "It is him."

Lynneslinger tried tricks and some double tricks too,
things we'd not seen, nor things we could do.

He waved with his rod and he shuffled his feet,
but alas on his nymph the trout just would not eat.

He casted in close and he casted out long,
but none of the trout would respond to his song.

He tried an emerger, then he tied on a dry,
then he went to a wet, and then started to cry.

As fly after fly he did cast with dismay,
for no rise to his rod could he get on that day.

The pressure to win started taking it's toll,
small droplets of sweat down his forehead did roll.

As shadows grew long, and the hour grew late,
frustration stood out on his feverish pate.

And with one final cast, his one desperate fling,
his future rolled out on a gossamer wing.

His fly disappeared in a violent splash,
"I'm on to a demon," he said,"at last!"

"I really got hammered," we all heard him scream,
and that single event could destroy all we'd dreamed.

The battle raged on, up the creek and then down,
till Mr. Lynneslinger was clear back to town.

We all followed along by the churned up creek,
perhaps for a glimpse, perhaps for a peek.

But the fish broke him off at the end of his backing,
and he left our fair town without even packing.

Old Pete just smiled coming back into town,
"I was sure that that man would fish himself down."

"For a fisher who prides far too much on his skills,
the pressure to win will cause too many ills."

"It's the name of the game for us who pursue,
to have a good time, however you do."

"And don't be misled,
and believe that you must"

Be as good as that guy
in some book or you'll bust."

"Just go on out fishing,
get as good as you may,

But don't brag it around,
or the price you'll pay." ~ JC