What a noodle, that Norroway chap,
Who'd drift to the Pole to—complete our map!
Year after year in the broad-beam'd Fram,
Far from Society's "Real Jam,"
Away from the fjords, and Five o'Clock Tea,
Amidst the ice of the Kara Sea;
Certain of darkness, discomfort, and frost,
With an excellent prospect of getting lost,
Crunched in the ice-pack, frozen, or starved,
Whilst Mansion-House Banquets are being carved;