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A poem

Whose bones these are we want to know.
They died a million years ago;
They won’t see us, kneeling there,
Excavate them head to toe.

The birds and bats must think it queer,
When archaeologists are near,
Disturbing graves upon their find,
With every drop of sweat and tear.

From ruins, artefacts are mined,
By explorers who are so inclined,
With nought but boots and trowels and wit,
To rework history for mankind.

This life I hope to soon commit;
I have another job, darn it,
And debts to pay before I quit,
And debts to pay before I quit.


Just for fun. The idea for this ditty came to me at work. I guess could be titled Stopping by a Dig Site: an Onlooker’s Feeling.

With apologies to the late poet Robert Frost, on whose spine-tingling 1923 poem this is based. Link below.

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