In the north of Michigan's lower;
Runs the troubled river of sand;
In branches of North, South, East and main;
From Frederic, Grayling, Lovells, and Roscommon you rise;
Whispering sweet promises of Brookies and Browns;
Mio, McKinley, and Curtisville are your towns;
East to Oscoda and lake of the Hurons;
With rumors of big Rainbows that act like clowns;
In your prime, currents were slow;
Sweepers and log jams checked your flow;
Huge Cedars and Pines shaded your waters;
A fertile nursery for Grayling;
You were doomed;
When "Milltown" boomed;
To feed the mighty saws;
A great forest was consumed;
Without the trees your waters warmed;
Because of the railroads the fishermen swarmed;
With sweepers cut and jams cleared;
A river hauling logs appeared;
Where are the Grayling now?
Now the loggers are a vanishing breed;
Replaced by the Army in despicable deed;
They practice through the long summer's night;
While we fear our own plight;
Tank, plane, and missile pound your headwaters;
Your bounty: Arsenic, Cadmium, Lead, Nitrocellulose,
Selenium, and Zinc to name a few;
Are they learning to kill a river with this toxic brew?
Each year legions come for sport;
With rod, tube, and boat they cavort;
Some, proper day and night;
Others sunburned, noisy, drunk, destructive;
Where does it end, this riparian right?
Identify your friends by behavior and effect;
Not canoeists in rafts and flotillas;
A slashing, littering, wanton pack of godzillas;
But fishers who fight your battles in court;
And anglers that come to rebuild, repair, and restore;
That you might be the Au Sable once more.
