Freshet, I’m in freshet,
and my parts scream “cold!” yet my heat starts to peak.
Not for bream I pine, of harpoonness I speak.
splendid trout to gather, lancing creek to creek.

Fresh fish, I love fresh fish—
bill of fare has it at least five times a week.
I will banish what guys vanquish: game they seek.
Splendid ’pout to gather, lancing creek to creek.

Oh, I love those tines that rout ’em
and breach ’em till they leak,
’cause there’s nothing that thrills me as much
as lancing creek to creek.

Oh, I love to go out fishing—
stick slick finned skin silver-sleek.
Yes, there’s nothing I enjoy as much
as lancing creek to creek.

Come on a lancing spree:
there’s not much harm we can do;
I’ll arm you with two
barbed spars to ram through. . .

the fresh fish. . .pikin’ flesh sprit?!
Nuts! my parts feel polled/poled, and I start getting weak,
’cause it seems you’ve tined the shaft of my physique.
It’s not trout you’ve gaffed; your lancing's. . .
’pout’s not gaffed; your lancing's. . .
Ouch! a gaffe: your lancing’s wreaked my teak!