You’re a mean one, Mr. Nymph.

You really are a heel.

Even though you catch all the fish,

You make me fish by feel,

Mr. Nymph.

You’re a bad little hare’s ear with some tungsten steel.

 

You’re a monster, Mr. Nymph.

You disappear in holes.

Why can’t you be a spider?

Or some other terrestrial, Mr. Nymph?

I wouldn’t fish you with a

10-and-a-half-foot pole.

 

You’re a vile one, Mr. Nymph.

Sure, you’re covered in fish slobber.

But you have the aesthetic pleasure of fishing a worm under a bobber,

Mr. Nymph.

Given the choice between the two of you,

… I’d find a way to fish dry flies.

 

You’re a foul one, Mr. Nymph.

You’re a nasty gold-ribbed punk.

Your dubbing is like camouflage.

You blend with stream-bottom gunk,

Mr. Nymph.

 

The three best quips that describe you,

Are as follows, and I quote:

“I think I missed one.”

“Dang it. I missed another one.”

“Forget this, I’m putting a wooly bugger on.”

 

You’re deadly, Mr. Nymph.

You’re the king of catching trout.

You’re the type of food fish eat the most even when hatches are about,

Mr. Nymph.

 

My fly box is an appalling dump heap,

Overflowing with the most boring assortment of subsurface imitations imaginable,

Mangled up with old dropper knots.

 

You nauseate me, Mr. Nymph.

With stoneflies, caddis, and bugs.

I can’t watch fish swim up and rise or strip the streamer to feel a tug,

Mr. Nymph.

 

You’re a last resort when I haven’t caught fish…

But I don’t have to be happy about it.