In the quiet of the night we ponder,
Gazing at the stars with wonder.
Are we the only ones to tread,
On this blue sphere where life is spread?

Are we truly lonely, on this blue marble sphere?
This pale dot, a mote of dust, adrift, with naught to hear?
No alien footprint lingers, on this shore whereon we roam,
Are we the only story, whispered back to home?

Crusoe on his island, a lonely searching soul,
Stumbled on a footprint, a story yet untold.
A mark upon the sand, a whisper in the breeze,
Proof of another presence, carried on the seas.

Moon-dusted boots still linger there,
While Mars rovers tread with mechanical flair.
Dinosaurs' tracks from eons past,
But cosmic visitors? Unsurpassed.

From ants to giants, all leave a trace,
But where's the mark of otherworldly grace?
Like Crusoe on his island shore,
We search for signs, but find no more.

Happisburgh whispers secrets, of giants from the past,
Their footprints etched in stone, forever meant to last.
Eve's delicate impression, a testament to time,
Of ancestors who walked this Earth, beneath a different clime.

On this mote of dust we stand,
Scanning skies with outstretched hand.
Are we the only ones who roam?
Or is the cosmos also home?

One evening at dusk as Noah stood on his Ark,
Putting green oil in starboard side lamp,
His wife came along and said, 'Noah, summat's wrong,
Our cabin is getting quite damp.

Noah said, 'Is that so?' Then he went down below,
And found it were right what she'd said,
For there on the floor quite a puddle he saw,
It was slopping around under t' bed.

Said he, 'There's an 'ole in the bottom somewhere,
We must find it before we retire.'
Then he thowt for a bit, and he said 'Aye, that's it,
A bloodhound is what we require.'

Se he went and fetched bloodhound from place where it lay,
'Tween the skunk and the polecat it were,
And as things there below, were a trifle so-so,
It were glad of a breath of fresh air.

They followed the hound as it went sniffing round,
'Til at last they located the leak,
'Twere a small hole in the side, about two inches wide,
Where a swordfish had poked in its beak.

And by gum! how the wet squirted in through that hole,
Well, young Shem who at sums was expert,
Worked it out on his slate that it came at the rate,
Of per gallon, per second, per squirt.

The bloodhound tried hard to keep water in check,
By lapping it up with his tongue,
But it came in so fast through that hole, that at last,
He shoved in his nose for a bung.

The poor faithful hound, he were very near drowned,
They dragged him away none too soon,
For the stream as it rose, pushed its way up his nose,
And blew him up like a balloon.

And then Mrs Noah shoved her elbow in t'hole,
And said,' Eh! it's stopped I believe,'
But they found very soon as she'd altered her tune,
For the water had got up her sleeve.

When she saw as her elbow weren't doing much good,
She said to Noah, 'I've an idea,
You sit on the leak and by t'end of the week,
There's no knowing, the weather may clear.'

Noah didn't think much to this notion, at all,
But reckoned he'd give it a try,
On the 'ole down he flopped, and the leaking all stopped,
And all... except him, was quite dry.

They took him his breakfast and dinner and tea,
As day after day there he sat,
'Til the rain was all passed and they landed at last,
On top side of Mount Ararat.

And that is how Noah got them all safe ashore,
But ever since then, strange to tell,
Them as helped save the Ark has all carried a mark,
Aye, and all their descendants as well.

That's why dog has a cold nose, and ladies cold elbows,
You'll also find if you enquire,
That's why a man takes his coat tails in hand,
And stands with his back to the fire.