A black rock, dirty, 
Overgrown moss and fern,
Sat by the highway,
Silent, sad, and stern;
It stood there, still,
For as long as it could remember,
Bless me! 
Rocks have very short memory,
So it didn’t hurt to ponder.

Until one day a li’l girl came by,
And the rock caught her eye,
Odd shaped and black,
She thought it pretty,
Put it in her knapsack.

The rock went home with her,
She cleansed it, polished it,
Until it shone like a star;
Then she played with it,
For a day and a half,
And then, like it always is,
It was forgotten.

Until one day she emptied her pack,
And the rock fell on her left foot,
She cried out loud.
It had hurt, like it always does.
“Stupid Rock!” She shrieked,
And threw it out her window;
The rock fell, it rolled down,
And gathered moss once again.

Sometimes now, the rock does wonder,
Why it’s gone so soft and tender.
Its shine is now gone too,
But its inside burns, much like a star.
Bless me! Did I mention?
Rocks have very short memory,
So it doesn’t hurt much, to ponder.