When August Days Are Hot An' Dry, When Burning Copper Is The Sky, I'd Rather Fish Than Feast Or Fly In Airy Realms Serene And High. I'd Take A Suit Not Made For Looks, Some Easily Digested Books, Some Flies, Some Lines, Some Bait, Some Hooks, Then Would I Seek The Bays And Brooks. I Would Eschew Mine Every Task, In Nature'S Smiles My Soul Should Bask, And I Methinks No More Could Ask, Except--Perhaps--One Little Flask. In Case Of Accident, You Know, Or Should The Wind Come On To Blow, Or I Be Chilled Or Capsized, So, A Flask Would Be The Only Go. Then Could I Spend A Happy Time,-- A Bit Of Sport, A Bit Of Rhyme (A Bit Of Lemon, Or Of Lime, To Make My Bottle'S Contents Prime). When August Days Are Hot An' Dry, I Won't Sit By An' Sigh Or Die, I 'll Get My Bottle (On The Sly) And Go Ahead, And Fish, And Lie!