When I was young, my sister and I used to ride our bikes to a big ditch down the road and then try to climb out of it. We were usually unsuccessful.

[‘Twas a healthy tract of great unearth, 
Matched in size by its own dearth.]

Quickly into the ditch we stole, 
Then, at once, gaped up a hole 
Only steam and steel could cajole. 
 
Up its walls we scratched and pawed, 
‘Mid showers of the falling ground 
Loosed by our tugs at sheared roots, 
And all that we jarred underfoot. 
 
Then, at once, we stopped our shimmy, 
To cleave between our soiled digits 
A rich and dun cross-section of clay, 
That did implore our hearts to play. 
 
But first we thought to imitate, 
With fingers curled, the bucket shape, 
And trembling lips, the sound it makes — 
 
    The claw that left 
            the earth to bake.