It is wartime on the continent!
There’s ice, ice, more ice gone
and my purple fingers reached out
to God for elections and a carry permit.
Into his white shadow, I dare not look,
and God kept taunting, he said,
“Why hast thou forgotten such luxuries
are found in the Frozen Food section?”
Disconsolate,
I scold God about climate change,
lack of desert storms, no Pebble Beach,
(sigh), no natural gas drillers come here.
“Someday gods shall need faith like mine!”
It is wartime on the continent,
our borders closed to Ferguson refugees,
“and, yes, Brother Shackleton,
I am not a whited out delusion –
you are forever stranded here with me.”
At the long night hour,
a G8 entourage arrived at McMurdo Station.
With melodic conceit, diplomats cried to me,
“Well, you can no longer say
that we ‘just talk about the weather’
and do nothing about it!”
It is Springtime on the continent
and John Bolton has nowhere to golf.
My brittle life (upon an ice float)
suddenly broke into Ouija Board Channel,
and a comfort parade of Neva mermaids
appeared on the sea ice horizon.
Drifting, sub zero afire,
I rose like Bouazizi to the political uproar
and declared for peace with
The Moby Dick State of Antarctica!
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