The Yukon Lure

Written in the style of Robert Service, one of my favorites.

In the winter’s cruel cold came the cry, “They’ve found gold!”
   And our minds began to dream.
So I, a poor bloke, in a masterstroke,
   Hoped that I could redeem
A life lost to drink, that hung on the brink
   Of decadence and defeat.
I puffed out my chest with all of the rest,
   And headed for Easy Street.

Now it’s hard for a drunk, without much spunk,
   And broke as a churchyard mouse,
To gather his stuff when there’s not enough,
   And he’s in an old jailhouse.
I’d beg and I’d plead, and tell of my need,
   And ignore their ugly frown.
With a con man’s guile and a snaggle-toothed smile,
   I promised I’d get out of town.

Enjoying my farce, with a kick to my arse,
   They sent me off on my way.
“If we see you again, it’s off to the pen,”
   I heard the fat jailer say.
“You’re a failure you know, and you’ll never go.
   You’re just like a useless turd.”
Without much affection, I looked his direction,
   And shot him my vilest bird.

Now all alone, and out on my own,
   For the first time venturing forth.
No clothes and no loot, the White and Chilkoot,
   Beckoned to me from the north.
Could the lure of the gold make me that bold?
   The thought brought a smile to my face.
So without hesitation, my new destination
   Was Skagway, the jumping off place.

Of course like a jerk, I tried to find work,
   But none would be there for me.
Who’d hire an ex-con, especially one
   Who’s a prospector wannabe.
So, up for the task, I stole a black mask
   To start a brief life of crime.
Things turned out right for this thief of the night,
   I had my stash in no time.

I boarded the ship for my northward trip,
   Excitement coursed through my veins.
Soaked to the core, I cursed and I swore
   At the chilling coastal rains.
Then Skagway at last, and the prospectors passed
   From the ship to the promising shore.
We gathered our gear, then drank our last beer
   And wondered when there’d be more.

I bought an old mare for a price I thought fair,
   And loaded supplies on her back.
The more she could take, the less trips we’d make,
   As we headed out on the track.
Twenty miles to the top, you’d better not stop,
   You’ll lose your place in the line.
So you stumble on, beginning at dawn,
   Up that endless incline.

At the summit, beware, the Mounties are there,
   Checking your food and your stores.
Once there’s a ton you’re allowed to go on,
   Or it’s back to Skagway once more.
On the third trip or so, with three more to go,
   Maggie the mare’s looking wane.
A stumble or two, now what should I do?
   I see that the poor thing’s in pain.

A stumble, a fall, she’s’ given her all.
   I pull her off under the trees.
She’s gasping for air, it doesn’t seem fair,
   She struggles to get to her knees.
I undo her pack, take it off of her back,
   My hand finds it way to her head.
In the fading light of approaching night,
   Maggie, my mare, is dead.

In this God-awful place, with tears on my face,
   And hundreds more pounds down below,
The lure of the gold is now tired and old,
   And this derelict dreamer now knows
His place is not here, it’s becoming quite clear,
   The Yukon is still far away.
With chin on his chest, he knows what is best.
   He should have gone home yesterday.

So back down the hill, had more than my fill
   Of Alaska and snow and of cold.
I lied and I stole and made this my goal,
   And were the truth to be told,
I got what I bought, and not what I sought,
   From this land with its deadly lure.
I’m headin’ for home, n’er more to roam,
   Of that you can be dad-gummed sure.