Grandpa loved to fish and would rise when the sun did.
He’d take his trusty wooden pail and his walking stick.
In turtle pace, he’d plod down Longman’s Trail to the Banjo Creek.
One morning, as he reached the water’s edge, he spied a fish on the bank.
Upon closer inspection, he saw he was gravely mistaken.
It was no fish but rather, a pale and severed hand.
It was remarkably smooth with no foul odor or decay.
The manicured nails and slender fingers were those of a lady.
Removing a clean, crisp hanky from his pocket,
he wrapped it gently, and then within the pail, he tucked it.
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