Oh why won’t the fish come to me?
as an angler that is my plan;
they seem to just leave me be,
sang a lonely old fisherman.

There he sat on his little row boat,
out on the edge of Lough Owel;
a melody stuck deep in his throat
about how he felt like a fool.

Suddenly, his line was tensioned and taut,
as tight as a string on his guitar;
and he hauled in the first fish, that he ever caught,
then smiled, and said Aha! There you are!

The fish seemed to try to reply,
moving his mouth, tail and fin;
The fisherman said, thank you, for your self-sacrifice,
as he freed it, and threw it back in.