Ignoring decades
Of global warning,
The network
Some weatherhead in 212ville
Presents chill factors
By map
“out in”
Kneebrassker,
Uhlassker,
Mitchigin,
Like we wear
Cured bearskins,
Warmed by dung-fires
In sod huts,
Buried under ice mounds,
Venturing out
On snowshoes
To kill our meat,
Some of us
Freezing blue
To be found
In spring by
Adventuresome
Easterners
Passing thru the Rustbelt,
Their notion of
Adventure travel.
We’re like a zoo
Out here, waiting
For the nice people
To come take
Pitchers, eh,
Toss us pemmican,
Jerky, summer
Sno-cones
Visitors hoping
We’ll copulate
In public
Like red-ass
Baboons --
Which we just might.