Snowmobilers — A Strange Breed

By Jim Bell, Dryden

There’s a new kind if creature emerging on earth,
I’ll describe him to you for whatever it’s worth;
He comes out of hiding in winter I’m told,
He rejoices in weather that’s terribly cold.

He leaves the warm fireside, his wife and his kids,
Climbs onto a motor, a belt and two skids.
The machine comes to life, he is ready to go,
But he can’t, cause as yet there is no sign of snow.

For the past 18 days he’s been wearing a suit,
That is covered in zippers from parka to boot,
And mittens, and helmet, and mask on his head,
“My God” says his wife “must you wear that to bed?”

Then it finally happens, the ground has turned white,
He’s on his machine and he roars out of sight;
On the flat he’ll crouch down, on a corner he’ll lean,
And they tell me his blood is now pure gasoline.

Over hill, over river, through marsh, and round trees,
Over rockpile and sandspit, yet down on his knees,
He looks like he’s praying as onward he flies,
Is it monster or man?  All we see is his eyes.

He’ll go charging ahead when it’s 20 below
Screaming into  a blizzard of onrushing snow,
By what demon possessed is this new breed of man,
Who finds joy in a snowstorm like no human can?

But what happens in summer when snows are not there?
Is he out on the porch in an old rocking chair?
No; he’s inside the house for the whole world to see,
Sitting there on his snowmobile, watching T.V.

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