For a rouge-stained kiss from this infamous miss
They will give a seal’s sleek fur,
Or perhaps a sable, if they are able;
It’s much the same to her.
Oh, the North Countree is a rough countree,
That mothers a bloody brood;
And its icy arms hold hidden charms
For the greedy, the sinful and lewd.
And strong men rust, from the gold and the lust
That sears the Northland soul,