At the foot of Mt. St. Leonard where in spring the wattles glow,
Where the mountain-ash and messmate 'midst the densest bracken grow,
There's a mountain creek that wanders 'neath the green boughs hanging low,
Where I finished with my mate Dennis in the days of long ago.
With an angler's calm precision "Den" picked out a likely pool,
Where we fed a host of yabbies of a most pugnacious school,
And I soon discovered thereby that the yabbie is no fool
When it comes to robbing fishes in a manner calm and cool.
Down between the lors and shadows we could see the blackfish sweet,
Oh, so juicy and so succulent "Den" said they were to eat,
With some breadcrumbs rolled around them in a manner nice and neat,
Fried in butter (not with dripping) they would be a perfect treat.
All this talk while we were beaten in a cunning sort of style,
Outmanoeuvred and outgeneralled by the strategy and guile
Of the calm Toolangi yabbies who consumed our bait the while
Blackfish couldn't get a look-in though queued up in single file.
So we dined that night more simply on a Dennis omelette,
And the poet swore, by crikey, they were his best as yet,
And I did not mention yabbies lest he'd break out in a sweat,
Nor the blackfish, nor the butter, nor the breadcrumbs, don't forget.
First published in The Bulletin, 7 October 1953
