Products of lust through incidental reproductionnA group of kids stuffed, primed and fated for self-destructionnFour or five years will get the job donenSometimes advancement comes with two or even nonennBut let me tell younWith buzzcuts looking horrible and Tom needing de-lousingnWith the finest olive snowsuits onnAnd goggles for reflected sunnWe sing old-fashioned songsnAnd trudge through low-income housingnnWe press on, we press onnI'm guessing that we're closenI see some EskimosnLost 6 or 7 toesnAnd I can finally say that we'll never make it homenIt's all we knownnAnd snowshoeing is fucking tough withinnThis arctic circle pit, but I've danced worse than thisnThe northern lights try to reflect the pathnAt 30 centigrade below the zero marknnThe top of the world is callingnWith censors reading low on oxygennWe ask ourselves some simple questionsnIf not us, who? If not now, when?