Alluvial gold, alluvial gold,
there's many a fortune's been made, I am told
but many a prospector's dreams have turned cold
and they're never quite cured if they ever grow old.
You set up a camp near the winding creek bed
where, if you prosper, you may build a shed.
You pan there each day but you don't get ahead
and many's the belly's been filled with hot lead.
When colour is sighted you get such a lift
like all of your Christmases wrapped in one gift,
you swirl, take a good look, painstakingly sift
until rare golden fragments spiral and drift.
It's true that the gold colour gets in your blood,
your pulse gets a-thumping, your heart goes 'thud-thud',
you're up to your hips in clay, dirt and mud
but mostly the treasure you find is a dud.
© 2019 cherryk
(All rights reserved)