The prospector’s legs are knee-deep in the stream
As his eyes scan the sand for a small golden gleam

Brown fingers, hope lingers on adamant hands,
As he traces the shore with a rust-crusted pan

Sharp eyes catch a glint, locking onto it fast,
As hungry hands swallow salvation at last

His eyes hover slowly, the sun starts to sink
As the man scans the depths, the stream gives him a wink

The brook babbles softly; its cackles are cold-
The man doesn’t know that his prize is fool’s gold.

He pockets his treasure and laughs with delight
As a wicked grin splits ‘cross his face in the night.

To seek out pure gold is the prospector’s rule,
But often fool’s gold is gold to the fool.