A Fishing Rod

What is it about a fishing rod
And a young chap on the end?
You can hardly call it casting
Though it’s apparent the rod does bend.

One minute the bait is up in a tree
Then under a rock it’s found
Best to be well supplied
Count on worms falling to the ground.

The screams of excitement—a catch is made,
You’d swear he landed Moby Dick.
There are established size limits to hold to
And to those the warden will stick.

How many times have I gone fishing
And my rod remains resting on the shore?
“Caught another one,” you hear a lot
That means, “I’m ready for more.”

We know the Good Lord was a fisherman,
And no doubt on how He must feel,
As He returns home from fishing
With, “Little Keepers” in His creel.