Whose woods these are I have no clue
They're not on any map I knew
I might be found by Act of God
Or hunt of wolves before I'm through.
The snowmobiles must think it odd
To see that human boot has trod
Into the frozen stream and bog
A guide's mistake and woodsman's fraud.
I stumble cursing in the fog
And splay across a fallen log
The only other sound's the scream
Of weakened tree and rabid dog
The woods are vile, an evil dream
The miles are leaden, long they seem
With no clear way to cross the stream
With no clear way to cross the stream.