‘In that rich, oil-bearing region, it is probable that Lot’s
       wife was turned into a pillar of asphalt — not salt.’
                         Sir William Whitebait, Member of the
                                      Institute of Mining Engineers

I long for the desolate valleys, 
Where the rivers of asphalt flow,
For here in the streets of the living,
Where my footsteps run to and fro,
Though my smile be never so friendly,
I offend wherever I go.

Yes, here in the land of the living,
Though a marriage be fairly sprung,
And the heart be loving and giving,
In the end it is sure to go wrong.

Then take me to the valley of asphalt,
And turn me to a river of stone,
That no tree may shift to my sighing,
Or breezes convey my moan.