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Does Bob have luck down upon the creek,
Because his whiskers are long and thick,
Do they make such and excellent blind,
That the trout can’t see what is behind,
Or is it the very thick smokescreen,
That keeps friend Bob from being seen,
Or do they like the Aromatic smell,
Of the old pipe that serves Bob so well,
Or the sum reflecting from Bob’s shiny dome,
May cause the trout to leave their home,
It might put them in such a daze,
That they can’t resists Bobs winning ways,
And of the above may not be the reason,
That the fish come to Bob in any season.
It must be that Bob has some charm or trick,
That lures the trout from Wilber Creek.
Does he have some mystic thought or sign,
That draws them to his hook and line?
For it certainly does beat all git out,
The way the lad pulls in the trout,
It seems its always good fishing weather,
When bob and the creek get together,
Bob surely can cope with any man,
In giving a fishy smell to the frying pan.
When Bob has shuffled this mortal coil,
And ceases to fish and smoke and toil,
When he wound his little ball of yarn.
And digs no more worms behind the barn.
When he has cast aside his old fish pole,
And has been for the last time to his favorite hole
When he suffers no more from carbuncle or boil
When he has taken his last dose of castor oil,
When he is wholly free from every pain
And his bait can lies out in the rain
When no more up to Aunt Roses he treks
And trades her eggs of unknown sex
When there he no longer winds his way
To buy Terbacker and give eggs for pay.
When Bob has left this world of quile
And has been planted in proper style
when everything is snug and tight
This little verse I would recite.
Here Bob is anchored I do declare,
Hey Bob what are you doing there,
Tis poor fishing down in the ground,
Trout mostly in the creeks are found.
You can stay ten years at the hole you’re in,
And you’ll never catch a single fin
Whether from old age, accident or being sick,
Death want long keep Bob from the creek,
Bob’s ghost will give poor ginks a fright,
Who venture near the creek at night
the wind through the same old whiskers will blow
as up and down the creek he’ll go
his faithful pipe between his teeth
around his neck his funeral wreath
his burial shirt ripped up the back
won’t he make the two tails crack,
it would be worth five dollars almost
to see O.G. Spencer meet his ghost
he’d leave that spot so mighty pronto
that the ghost would wonder where he’d gone to
the ghost will yell Ora, Wait’I want to inquire
whats the rush is Willie on fire,
I tought, maybe, you got it over the radio’
There must be some bad news you hurry so,
To see you run makes me sore and tired.
I wish you no bad luck, but I hope you get mired.
So stretch them out longer and pick them up higher.
If you don’t touch the ground so often-you feet’ll keep dryer.
If you keep on going the way you started,
You’ll get somewhere, Don’t get faint hearted,
Ora would surely set an awful pace
Trying to push his back on by his face,
And as long as his ghostly fear would last
He would jump every car he couldn’t get past
Each eye would look wider thatn its mate
His bowels would be in an awful state
They would get in such a great uproar,
That they would be of now use to O.B. nay more
He’d shun his legs right off his torso
Before he’d ever make Owosso
And that would be the last of O.G. Spencer,
A good straight man but slightly bent, Sir.
The drawback to this little lark
Would be to get O.G. alone in the dark.
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