The weather was warming, time to catch a largemouth.
But instead, I have hope that the bass will be there.
The water’s too cold for the bass to bed,
So I’ll just have to catch them, fishing slow instead.
While momma’s at the house, wrapping gifts with class,
I’m on the lake, a fishin’ for bass.
When up on the shore, arose such a clatter,
I ran to the bank to see what’s the matter.
Away from my weedline,
That’d been producing just fine.
When what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a sleigh, pulled by eight whitetail deer,
I have to admit, I was a little confused,
St. Nick was here early, which left me bemused.
I told him, Please, be aware,
Gun season is open, so your deer should take care.
There’s hunters about, even though there’s no chill,
Looking for fresh venison, all ready to grill.
He replied, They’ll have to chance it, alone in the wood,
I’d love to go fishing, if I could join you, I would.
Turns out, old Santa’s a bassaholic at heart,
Catches bass to unwind, has done so from the start.
So back to the weedline we flew,
To see if I couldn’t help old St. Nick catch a few.
Thus we drove to my spot, in my nimble BassCat,
Where he sat at my side, all jolly and fat.
And he whistled and shouted and called out his wishes,
Fish crankbaits and worms, to catch some fishes.
Spinnerbaits and jigs, we must all try,
We’ll catch us some bass, to grill or fry.
We had quite a day, with cast after cast,
It passed way too fast, I wished it would last.
I came to find out that St. Nick’s a good stick,
When it comes to cold water, he knows every trick.
I wanted to beat him, but then I thought twice,
If I do that, it might not be nice.
If I’m naughty, I’ll get switches and coal,
Not what I wanted, a new power pole.
So catch them, we did, all the way to dark,
‘Till he said he must go, it’s been quite a lark.
There’s still work to be done, before my big night,
Back to my eight deer, I must take flight.
Back to the elves, before they start to fight,
A delay in getting ready, just wouldn’t be right.
So left me, he did, they took to the sky;
Called his whitetail deer, north did they fly.
And he whistled and shouted, and called them by name;
But since he’s been fishing, their names aren’t the same.
Now, Rayburn! Now, Martin! Now, Falcon and Fork!
On, Pickwick! On, Sardis! On, Mead and Norfork!
To the end of the dam! To the top of the trees!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away, please!
But as they flew off, I did hear him call;
Merry Christmas to you, and Bass Wishes to all.