On the Yukon trail thousands fail
For only the fit can thrive
The weak and slow are trampled low
And only the strong survive.

Dissolute, damned and despairing
Striken, palsied and slain
That is the law of the Yukon
And how she makes it plain.

So list to the call of the Yukon
For this is the Yukon's call
'Tis not the call of the tom-cat
To his sweetheart on the wall.

'Tis a call to the strong and the rugged
As they plough through the snow in brakes
Searching for gold-dust and brick-dust
And packets of Motza cakes.

In the land of icebergs and icewafers
There's five thousand miles of snow
I walked it twice to make certain
So I think I'm entitled to know.

And that is the call of the Yukon
That wafts o'er the trees and housetops
Saying, 'Call me early, mother, dear
For I'm to be Queen of the slops.'

I arrived at the camp, full of cramp from the damp
With a gamp and a lamp like a tramp
A dark brown taste at the back of my neck
Thro' licking the gum off a stamp.

Hundreds had flopped, the dole had been stopped
To live we'd to beg or to borrow
Nothing to eat for three whole days
Yesterday, today, and tomorrow.

Living with Spaniards in tanyards
Think of the life I've led
Where the chambermaids all wear couduroys
And spill hot tea in your bed.

And that is the call of the Yukon
Calling to you and Tom MIx
In the wide open spaces where men are men
And John Wayne* counts as six.

Up North in the frozen Klondyke
Where buffaloes all roam free
And the moths get into your underwear
And ruin your pedigree.

Digging for grapes with a bicycle lamp
On a freezing, tropical might
And my feet were just like marble
Only p'raps not quite so white.

Sleeping mid gold and wealth untold
Dreaming of fortunes in Consols
To awake in the morn with a coat on your tongue
And a camisole on your tonsils.

And that is the call of the Yukon
Calling to you - 'Say when,'
Like a reckless yid calls solo on ace
King, Queen, Jack and ten.

In the Yukon glen there's a gambling den
With ever open doors
The miners come and make things hum
Playing tippit in plus four's.

The boss of the hut is a fiendish slut
A woman called Hannah Perkins
She frowns by the hour - her face is so sour
It's pickled her internal workings.

On New Yera's night, old Hannah got tight
She went out and married a darkie
And now for her sins, she's got three sets of twins
One black, one white, and one Khaki.

And that is the call of the Yukon
The call of the far Klondyke
You can laugh at my tale of the Yukon
You can do what the ***** you like.