Beer, wine, naked women and the week before Christmas

'T'was the week before Christmas, when all ‘round the ‘Juck
Not a cloud wasn’t pouring, not a few with thunder struck.
The lures were hung by the loop knots with care,
In hopes that fat cod soon would be theirs.

The children with iPods all snug in the cottage,
While visions of monsoons turned lake to porridge.
And Mum with a white and I with a beer,
Had just settled our brains to spend the trip in here.

When out on the lake there arose such a clatter,
As the gale from the south did the porridge batter.
Again another morn’ as the gale did blow,
The Brindabella Ranges did deport in snow.

The moon on the water ne’er did appear
As the lake to the back door crept ever near.
When, finally to my wondering eyes should show,
But a modicum of sun, and above 11 the temperature did go .

With a favourite old diver, on the penultimate day,
Did I plough the topsoil from up Goodradigbee way.
The cav’ plate of the outboard nowhere in sight,
Was eloquent testimony to my luring plight!

When on the final day the summer did return,
The kids round the lake in the ring took turn,
And laying aside all the hardbody baits,
I turned to the spinner-blades without any takes!

I filled up the car and to the family gave a whistle,
And to the chocolate malted lake we waved our dismissal.
But I managed to exclaim, ‘ere I tooled round that switchback,
"Happy fishing to all, and to all I’ll be back!"