Products of lust through incidental reproduction   A group of kids stuffed, primed and fated for self destruction   Four or five years will get the job done   Sometimes advancement comes with two or even none      But let me tell you, with buzz cuts looking horrible and tom needing de-lousing   With the finest olive snowsuits on and goggles for reflected sun   We sing old fashioned songs and trudge through low-income housing   We press on, we press on, I'm guessing that we're close   I see some Eskimos, lost six or seven toes   And I can finally say that we'll never make it home      It's all we know   And snowshoeing is fucking tough within this Arctic Circle pit   But I've danced worse than this   The northern lights try to reflect the path at 30 centigrade below the zero mark   The top of the world is calling   with sensors reading low on oxygen   We ask ourselves some simple questions   If not us, who?   If not now, when?