There once was a collector from France,
Who ripped open the seat of his pants.
He sat on the dump,
Exposing his rump,
And developed French pants full of ants.
A rockhound who was a nice feller,
Stored 10 tons of rocks in his cellar.
Oh, boy, said his wife,
You’d best get a life,
Or people will call you Bob Keller.
There once was a collector named Jake,
Who discovered a mineral fake.
He dug for diamonds way down,
In a mine dumping ground,
And found they were quartz by mistake.
There once was a rockhound named Stout,
Who on old quarry walls climbed about.
When spying some garnet,
Slipped right off, gosh darn it,
Now we all do without Stout about.
An active young rockhound named Wright,
Had ten dollars to buy rhodonite.
The dealer said fifty-six,
The rockhound said “nix”,
Wright’s plight ; rhodonite’s out of sight.
When you live like me on a planet,
Made largely of rock like a granite,
The hammer will bounce,
You break off an ounce,
This rock is so tough, Congress should ban it.
With explosives, old Harry and Linc,
Did argue on which hole to sink.
The adit closed in by the blast,
They stand there aghast,
As hard rock miners, they stink.
There was a young rockhound named Kent,
Whose chisels were crooked and bent.
When working a vein,
He saw with disdain,
The crystals didn’t come out, they went.
There was a Swiss strahler named Dave,
Who spied gwindles deep in a cave.
While trying to break ‘em,
The walls he did shake ‘em.
Now Dave’s cave is a situation so “grave”.
An active geologist named Glass,
Tried digging in Colorado’s Red Pass.
But when he got there,
Snow was all in the air,
And he collected frostbite on his (bottom).
There was an eccentric rockhound named Mose,
Who worked in the mine without clothes.
In summer he got,
A bit sweaty and hot,
But in winter he froze, I suppose.
A homely collector named Blaine,
Tried his luck digging pyrite in Spain.
But when he got there,
He became much aware,
Spanish rain falls mainly on the plain.
A shark tooth collector from Nantucket,
Put his teeth in an old rusty bucket.
As the tide rose,
His pail did dispose,
I guess old Neptune did tuck it.
There once was a rockhound named Tom Brock,
Whose clothing was something to mock.
After digging one day,
To his partner did say,
“Hey, there’s a good rock in Brock’s sock.”
A collector in Africa named Jake,
Was eaten for lunch by a snake.
Said the snake, “Well, egad!,
You’d be tastier, lad,
If you let go of that quartz crystal plate.”
An astronaut geologist named Crockett,
Set off from the moon in a rocket.
The lift-off was slow,
It got hard to go,
Because of the rocks in his pocket.
A strange person is the geologist,
For whose habits I’m not an apologist.
He stows more rocks in his pack,
Than is good for his back,
And retires to write to the Rockhound List.
A geochemist from England (Broadbents),
Had affairs with some mineral gents.
She was not oversexed,
Or jealous or vexed,
She just wanted to mix up the elements.
