There once was a plinth of great height
that incited the maiden's delight
it was made of pink stone
and shaped like a bone
and was paid tribute with flowers by night

To the south of the village a tunnel
formed by aeons of watery funnel
yawned open and blew
warm wet foggy dew
into which the young men would pummel

Those ancestors are no more,
with their stone yings and yangs and their lore:
It's all fine to talk,
But rock is rock..!
Their naughty bits just got too sore!

-A variant on the ever popular 'man from Nantucket' alley of the poetic arts.
-Dave