Upon the land in northern climes
There is an eerie sort of beast
Who act like humans of ten times
The way their passions are unleashed.

This little beast with life severe
Goes on its way in natures way
But at set times with passions queer
They mass together in a fray.

And though he lives in lands so cold,
And eats where vegetable abounds
The strangest stories we are told
Of their weird habits and their sounds

It seems they have an awful urge
To break connection with this life,
Their trample seems a sort of dirge
As they press onward in their strife.

They scramble over clod or grave,
O’re stone or what it e’re may be
Until they reach the ocean wave
To drown and die within the sea.

Is this not like most humans do?
Who use no reason in their haste.
A great obsession seems to woo
And all press onward for a taste.

And like Christ’s herd of Deviled swine
They all press on as if t’was planned.
They cannot wait for Father Time,
They grasp his sickle in their hand.

They smoke and drink, debauch and swear,
Just break Gods law in any way,
Which is their life if they should care,
For it is wisdom to obey.

They seek the slickest road to hell,
The one with germ or poison gas,
Without a use they curse and yell,
And make machines to kill enmass.

They drive at speed before unknown,
Without a thought they should obey.
They all seem drugged with my dethroned
For downward is the wide highway.

Are you?