Twas two weeks before Christmas, and all ‘cross the lake,
nothing was happening, not a single wake.
The wish lists were posted, as they are each year,
mine filled with hopes for the appropriate gear.
The dogs were stretched fully, all over the bed,
Ma objected: “There’s no room for me,” she said.
With my magazine I lay, trying not to doze,
but the blanket was heated and my eyes did close.
Back and forth I went, between awake and sleeping,
notions of fish stories through my head were sweeping.
Monster bluegills, bass, pickerel and sea robins,
do I have all the right lures, hooks and bobbins?
So I jumped from my bed to double-check the list,
had I posted enough to give Santa the gist?
No! What could I have possibly been thinking?
Looking at the list, my heart began sinking.
Shirts, sweaters and Colts wear are fine gifts, to be sure,
but to keep my reputation, I would need more.
The latest fishing stuff I could not risk wanting,
to have any hope of avoiding the taunting.
It had to be done, and I needed to be quick,
I had to redo this list, redo it real slick.
So I gathered all the catalogues I could find,
and clipped ads for “can’t-miss” gadgets of every kind:
Long Snip Cheaters (a fancy pair of snippers).
Deck Grippers (essentially: water-proof slippers).
The Radioactive Pickle (for fishing through ice).
The Yeti Carryall (to keep the truck nice).
The PowerBait Water Bug (it quivers).
The Coldfront IconX (to prevent shivers).
All these essential things, and several more,
now posted quite neatly on our bedroom door.
I returned to our bed, pushing one dog aside,
and said sleepily to my caring, lovely bride:
“A Merry Christmas to me and manufacturers world-wide.”