Bob, the Aerial Fossil Hunter
Posted: Wed Dec 14, 2016 6:21 pm
Bob, the Aerial Fossil Hunter
There once was a great fossil hunter,
Known to his colleagues as Bob.
He worked night and day
(Mostly work, little play)
And became very good at his job.
Fossils he found in a cliff-face.
Fossils he found in the mud.
Fossils he found
In all sorts of ground.
Fossils were deep in his blood.
Then one day he had an idea.
“Dinosaurs sometimes could fly.
It would be really great.
If I could locate
A fossil high up in the sky.”
So he chartered a sweet little aircraft
That ferried him into the blue.
Though he felt slightly sick,
He carried a pick
And a hammer to tap at each clue.
He tethered his plane to a nimbus,
And put on a pair of cloud boots,
Then he hammered away
For the rest of the day
At the heart of the cloud, near its roots.
As the sun slipped down near the horizon,
Poor Bob, he had nothing to show
For his pitch at the sky.
He’d been left high and dry,
And he felt it as quite a hard blow.
But as the last rays of the sunshine
Reached up to the nimbus, blood red,
His pick, sharp and tough,
Didn’t hit fluffy stuff,
But struck something firmer instead.
He stood quite erect in his cloud boots,
Gave hammer a last mighty swing,
Then reached with his wrist,
Gave a yank, and a twist,
And pulled out a great feathered wing.
He knew from the moment he grabbed it,
It wasn’t the wing of a bird.
It was simply too vast,
And it called from the past,
And deep in his heart, something stirred.
Then our renowned fossil seeker
Kicked off his cumbersome boots.
He leapt in the sky
With no word of good bye,
Just a squeal and a couple of hoots.
That was the last he was spotted;
The last time, but was it the end?
Some say at night
He is seen clinging tight
To the neck of a large feathered friend…
© Stephen Whiteside 12.12.2016
There once was a great fossil hunter,
Known to his colleagues as Bob.
He worked night and day
(Mostly work, little play)
And became very good at his job.
Fossils he found in a cliff-face.
Fossils he found in the mud.
Fossils he found
In all sorts of ground.
Fossils were deep in his blood.
Then one day he had an idea.
“Dinosaurs sometimes could fly.
It would be really great.
If I could locate
A fossil high up in the sky.”
So he chartered a sweet little aircraft
That ferried him into the blue.
Though he felt slightly sick,
He carried a pick
And a hammer to tap at each clue.
He tethered his plane to a nimbus,
And put on a pair of cloud boots,
Then he hammered away
For the rest of the day
At the heart of the cloud, near its roots.
As the sun slipped down near the horizon,
Poor Bob, he had nothing to show
For his pitch at the sky.
He’d been left high and dry,
And he felt it as quite a hard blow.
But as the last rays of the sunshine
Reached up to the nimbus, blood red,
His pick, sharp and tough,
Didn’t hit fluffy stuff,
But struck something firmer instead.
He stood quite erect in his cloud boots,
Gave hammer a last mighty swing,
Then reached with his wrist,
Gave a yank, and a twist,
And pulled out a great feathered wing.
He knew from the moment he grabbed it,
It wasn’t the wing of a bird.
It was simply too vast,
And it called from the past,
And deep in his heart, something stirred.
Then our renowned fossil seeker
Kicked off his cumbersome boots.
He leapt in the sky
With no word of good bye,
Just a squeal and a couple of hoots.
That was the last he was spotted;
The last time, but was it the end?
Some say at night
He is seen clinging tight
To the neck of a large feathered friend…
© Stephen Whiteside 12.12.2016