The Immoral Arctic
The Eskimo, explorers state,
Little regards the marriage vow,
Lightly the bride decieves her mate.
It makes you sort of wonder how.
Come forth, my love; the Northern Light Your husband in the igloo snores, And it will be sufficient bliss
Wavers in glory o'er the snow;
We'll dedicate to love this night.
It's only forty-five below.
Heedless of love's adventures,
Come forth to God's great out-of-doors!
You'd better bring all your furs.
To sit and drink your beauty in.
I dare not kiss you, for the kiss
Is likely to remove the skin.
The Eskimo's incontinence
Is what explorers make report of.
I don't contest the evidence;
But still, it makes you wonder, sort of.
The Perforated Spirit
The fellows up in Personnel,
They have a set of cards on me.
The sprinkled perforations tell
My individuality.
And what am I? I am a chart
Upon the cards of IBM;
The secret places of my heart
Have little secrecy for them.
It matters not how I may prate,
They punch with punishments my scroll.
The files are masters of my fate
They are the captains of my soul.
Monday my brain began to buzz;
I was in agony all night.
I found out what the trouble was:
They had my paper clip too tight.