Sitting in the cold metal boat,
the winds force brushing against my face.
Nothing to be heard, nothing is heard,
only the birds singing their morning tones to the whole world,
the frogs complaining to the birds with their croaks,
the waves busting up against the silver shine of the boat.

Sitting in the cold metal boat,
casting my line out into the deep blue-green lake,
watching my bobber, waiting for it to dunk its bright orange head under,
trying to capture the fish from beneath.

Sitting in the cold metal boat,
no one in sight, just my Grandpa.
Thinking to myself there is no one I’d rather be with,
no one I’d rather be fishing with, nowhere I’d rather be.

Sitting in the cold metal boat,
thinking that it will be like this forever.
Not knowing, not realizing this will only be for a short time.
Not once did it cross my mind I’d never sit in that cold metal boat again.

Sitting in the cold metal boat
watching my Grandpa smile at the sight of fish, competing to catch the most.
That’s the place I miss the most, sitting in the cold metal boat.