They called it Butte, for it was once a flatter land,
Then plowed down the mountain in a generation’s hand.

The hard working men labored without tire,
And traded life for a hope—both consumed by fire.

Through treacherous times, wealth came
To those who lusted fortune and fame.

When the treasure trove was finally scraped clean,
They left with the loot to never again be seen.

So the “richest hill on earth” is now a deep pit
Surrounded by the good people who put faith in it.

Even centuries may pass but the Butte will remain;
A city still working toward the higher gain.

Julia I Quigley
© 2013