The genesis of magma
In days of old when Earth was cold,
its surface smooth and flat,
a mole was mocked for tunnels cocked:
“Why twist they all like that?”
This roused an ire as bright as fire
in that poor mole’s dear heart:
“I can dig straight!” it said with hate
and thus to dig did start.
That angry mole dug stunning hole:
straight ’twas, but pointing down;
It knew ’twas wrong, but hurt pride strong
kept it from turning roun’.
Up on the ground there grew a mound
as deeper that mole went.
In time, to see how deep ’twould be
some people there were sent.
They called the mole from summit’s hole
but it did not reply;
they looked inside but nothing spied
for ’twas too dark to spy.
They held up light, a candle bright
that flaming wax did spill;
those flames did light deep coal that night
that burns the Earth’s core still.