A battle was fought on a frozen Arctic sea
It was short, it was brutal, and the victor was me.
It started at night in some sleazy Front Street bars,
Lots of beer was consumed, and cheap fat cigars.
It continued 'til dawn, as we rolled out to eat,
Black coffee, runny eggs and undercooked meat.
Eight hours ahead on frozen sea ice,
My bodily functions: a roll of the dice.
A few farts then escaped with a hideous stink.
Why did I eat that last sausage link?
That's when it hit me, the turtle head dance
And me in a snowsuit and three layers of pants.
At forty-below, if you have to shit,
Your bunghole tends to clam up a bit.
With my head to the wind and my ass to the shore,
A Siberian blast slammed my back door.
Thus the battle began, with a push and a grunt,
My bung shut tighter than an old nun's cunt.
With a mighty heave it emerged, with sizzle and pop,
Like a hot frying pan and a greasy pork chop.
As I looked down on the steaming log I was forming,
I shouted, "This ones for you Al: my own global warming!"
My shit, in a blink, was as hard as a rock,
As I struggled to cover my near frost-bitten cock.
As I trudged off on the ice, I started to pine.
What would become of that brown child of mine?
Would it be mistaken for a baby fur seal,
Clubbed to death by natives in a feverous zeal?
Most likely it would remain 'til the sea ice broke up,
Stranded on a floe like a lost little pup.
Its icy raft melting and with each passing wave,
One step closer to a watery grave.
