Little seashell,
Sitting on my shelf,
Sitting there since I was small,
And it makes me wonder,
What kind of story does it hold?
Did it travel across the seven seas?
Maybe it sailed from Austria-Hungary.
Perhaps it came to me,
From a pirate ship,
On a dangerous journey.
It could be a family heirloom,
It fell generation after generation,
Until it finally found me.
Perhaps it even descended,
From the great Queen Mary.
Maybe it belonged with the dinosaurs,
Buried beneath the Earth
Billions and millions of years ago.
Then was found by a great archeologist,
Perhaps even Indiana Jones.
So as to end this tortuous curiosity,
I decide to ask my mother dearest.
She says it’s a mystery to all,
Except the to the Dollar Tree employees,
That worked the day she bought it.
