by Edgar Albert Guest
Fish can be bought in the market place,
So it isn't the fish I'm after.
I want to get free from the care-drawn face
And back to an honest laughter,
I want to get out where the skies are clean
And rest by a river's brink,
I want to get out where the woods are green
And I want a few hours to think.
Oh, it isn't the fish I am greedy for,
It's the chatter and song of birds,
And the talk of trees that I've known before.
I am weary of selfish words.
I want to stretch out, just my soul and I,
In a place from the strife afar,
And let a few care-filled hours pass by
As I think of the things that are.
Oh, it isn't the fish that I go to get,
Though there's joy in a swishing line
And a splendid thrill when my grip I set
And a small mouthed bass is mine!
But my soul seems cramped in the stifling air
That is heavy with talk of gain
And I want to get out where the world is fair
And there isn't so much of pain.
Fish can be bought in the market place
But I long for the running streams,
And I want to be free from the care-drawn face
And the city of dreadful dreams.
I want to stretch out, just my soul and I
On a sun-kissed river shore,
And be, as a few mad hours rush by,
The man that I am, once more.
Last updated January 14, 2019