There's rustling amongst the horsetail trees,
a flash of suspicion from the sea,
at the swimming Ichthyosaurus
with tears in its eyes.

He complains of times of corruption;
because a very dubious rumbling
was tearing down through
the limestone formation.

The Plesiosaurus, the elder,
he rejoices in the lap of luxury,
the pterodactyl on his own
recently flew home drunk.

The Iguanodon, the lout,
becomes cheekier all the time.
He has already, in broad daylight,
kissed the Ichthyosauruses.

I suspect a world catastrophe,
it cannot go on like this much longer:
what shall become of the epoch,
if such things happen?

So the Ichthyosaurus lamented
then his heart turned to chalk,
His last sigh was lost
in the smoke and hiss of the flood.

They died at that self-same hour
all the dinosaurs,
they sank too deep into the chalk,
so naturally it was all over.

And he has sung to us
this petrified song,
he found it as fossilised sheet music
on a coprolite.