or The Loss of J. J`s Net

On the second of May in the year ninety nine,
Twas from Kilgarvan Pier that we started.
The lake was dead calm and the weather was fine
Not a sign we would end broken hearted.
There was Siobhan and Sile and Michael and I
And young Julia Jean their last daughter
We were full of high hopes, our spirits were high
No foreboding of mayhem and slaughter.

On the following day, the third of the month
We took the “Two Birds” up the river
[We took the “Two Birds” cos we hadn’t a punt
Though the depth of the stream made us quiver] It was while we were moored at a bend in the stream
That the crisis occurred to the daughter
While trying to surmount over my meagre bulk
The fishing net dropped in the water.

Oh then there was crying and shouting galore
While the rescue attempt was effected,
But despite heroic use of a boat-hook and oar
The fishing net wasn’t collected.
With grief laden hearts we returned down the stream
Netless and sadly depleted
Our tears wet the poop decks, our gloom a bad dream,
And on me terrible punishment meted.

I was forced to retire to the depths of the hold
To atone for my dastardly actions
I was fed on stale bread and on water so cold
My whole body went into contractions
My heart was so full of my grief so obscene
And my food –I was thoroughly off it
So I made restitution to Julia Jean
That having suffered net loss made gross profit.

I was reminded of this, previously unblogged, poem by the comment of Head-The-Ball this morning.
This was in fact my first attempt at poetry, written nearly nine years ago, intended (with a added financial inducement) to cheer up his young daughter, now a young adult, when my clumsy bulk had contributed to the loss of her fishing net