PETRIFIED GARDENS
There is an old man from the West
Whose stonework is considered the best;
He hauls his rocks in,
Midst mortar and gin,
And his intentions can hardly be guessed.
He carts in his rocks from the South
From locations by word and by mouth,
Where faults soon abound
Both within and Around
In his tales to his friends that he wow-eth.
Now those folk who emerge from the East
May consider Earth Science the least,
But he soon has them gasping
At his stories most rasping,
Which are jovial to Man and to Beast?
Harold L. Overton
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