Tumblers stuffed with rocks revolve and spin
Countless stones too numerous to count
My patience is starting to wear thin
We have enough to build two mounts.<
We worked like crows to find such pretties
When we first began to haunt far beaches
Yet another trip north leaves me quite leery
Of Lake Superior’s rock-strewn reaches.
Day and night I grind those glorious rocks
All the seasons of each year, fearing cold,
My pals insist its all a crock
Man this work’s really getting very old.
Next time we look for things we can do
I’ll suggest Bordeaux and then a screw.