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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 buzzcuts 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 6 or 7 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 censors reading low on oxygen We ask ourselves some simple questions If not us, who? If not now, when? From Letras Mania