Through the middle of a cornfieldWith its ripe and golden grain,'Round a waist-high prairie meadowWound a pot-hole riddled lane.It was there a shallow puddleWhere a sign read, "Zoned – No wake,"(Named with hopeful aspirations)Was the pond called Mammoth Lake.Now the puddle, at its broadest pointWas scarcely ten feet wide,And submerged within its shallow depthsA catfish did reside.A well-educated catfishFor he'd memorized the rulesSo he'd graduate—top of his classAt Small Fry Catfish School. Regulations he had studied wereONE—"Turtles are taboo,"Also "If it shines, don't bite it,"Advised precept NUMBER TWO.And then if perchance unthinkably,You find a hook you've bit,Then rule NUMBER THREE will save your finsJust "Flop, then twist, and spit."