Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house,
Not a fossil was forming, not even a woodlouse,
The sample bags were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that a Geologist would soon be there.
Out of the house arose such a clatter,
I grabbed my rock hammer to see what was the matter,
Out on the lawn I saw a rock good enough to lick,
I knew right away, it was old St Nick.
He came down the chimney like a bat out of hell,
He couldn’t believe that sulphurous smell,
Minerals and rocks arranged throughout the house,
“To prevent any weathering”! I whispered as quiet as a mouse.
A hard hat, a hand lens and some big boots too,
Every geologist knows what to do.
He filled our sample bags with coprolite and beer,
A big chunk of schist, and some rock hunting gear.
He rose up the chimney with a thunderous fart,
Old St Nick blew the house apart,
Rocks and fossils flew all around,
Leaving the geologists a hole in the ground.
He shouted and cursed as he rode out of sight,
Shouting i’ll be back next year,
Have a volcanic night!!!