The Fish Wrangler
At the break of day's first light,
A man wakes up looking for a fight.
A struggle not won with fists,
But in the way he moves his wrists.
For the fight to be at its best
He has no option but to head west.
Is there a greater satisfaction, though meek,
As one feels beside a creek?
If he wishes to stand a chance,
He must learn the river's dance.
His presentation must be without flaw,
Deep down he knows no greater law.
Is there a greater fight to be fought,
Or a greater thrill to be sought?
Not for the angler,
The man they call the fish wrangler.
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