The Fish House is Down
by Stephen Carter Johnson ( Grandson of Betty Johnson of Urbana, Illinois and Port Bruce, Ontario)
I wrote a little rap cause I got something to say,
About something that happened in Port Bruce today.
I was walking on the pier by the side of the channel,
And saw a man with a hard hat wearin' a flannel.
He was standin' with a shovel in a vacant lot.
A place always known as Cliff's old spot.
The man flashed a grin as I walked on by,
The pile of wood where the fish once fried.
I wanted to approach him and tell him my plight,
But it was no use it was an endless fight.
It's eatin' me up what's goin' on in this town,
They're not supposed to tear the fish houses down.
I remember the days when I was four feet high,
My mom would send me down for some fish to buy.
It was always fresh either filleted or smoked,
And never had bones that would make us choke.
Cliff was a master with a knife, and could surgically cut.
That was his own castle, it was his little hut.
He would give us a wink as he wrapped up our catch,
Then turn right around and slice up a new batch.
The taste was supreme, you could always bet,
And the house was a landmark that I'll never forget.
Yes that was the best place for fish in town,
But only memories remain because the fish house is down.
This wacky little rap is my own personal homage to Cliff's fish house. I wrote it the day it came down. Steve C. Johnson
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