The miner was mining (as miners will do)
With a pick in his hand and a foot in each shoe,
Chipping away in the dark at the stone,
Humming a melody, lost and alone,
With naught but the minimal light from his hat,
Searching for anything new to look at—
A flecklet of gold or silver would do,
Or rubies or diamonds or sapphires blue,
Still chipping away in the colorless light,
Which never was day nor ever was night.
Then with a swing his pickaxe struck home,
The wall so soft that it might have been foam.
“Hoho!” he cried, “I seem to have struck
My very first underground vein of good luck!”
Then pulling his pickaxe out of the crack,
He saw it was covered in something, not black,
But white—a goopy glue, frothy and slick.
It poured from the crack, clumpy and thick.
It formed a small puddle around his old boots
And came to a stop. He let out three hoots.
After tasting the tip of his pick with great care
He knew he had found something yummy to share.
So he scampered away to call the whole crew,
Barefoot, of course, for his boots stuck like glue.
And that is the story of how it was found
That marshmallows come from under the ground.