Among the mountains, over the hills
There sat a tiny town
Where employment was low, there was never any news
And all the adults wore a matching frown.

“The people want drama, but nothing ever happens here!”
The journos said one dry day;
“There’s nothing here to be proud of –
Not a single achievement that we can display!”

That same day the town, usually tourism-free
Became swamped with men in uniforms both blue and white
For that dry day Mount Gratitude had erupted
And the debris – oh what a sight!

The pressmen ran to their typewriters
The headlines boomed “Alas! The city grieves!
The school is lost, the mines destroyed
Mrs Turner’s prized rosebushes are little but withered leaves!”

Unemployment made its record, the town had reached its hottest day;
Migration had tripled, the mayor had lost his seat, formerly sound
And the typewriters finally clattered away;
And for the first time, when the papers went out, not a single reader was to be found.