Two yards in a fishing boat, Is quite enough to hold two men, With rods and reels and tackleboxes, And a little room to spare. But three men make it uneasy, With teetering, uneven motion With every movement we make. Fewer fish for every time We break the surface Because someone was uncomfortable Feeling their knee Bump into someone else's. I sigh and shake my head. These are the times A man could begin to desire A deserted island and the chance To fish alone.