Long John shivers
trembling his old timbers,
ev'ry organ, members,
being old, frigid.
Everything's rigid.

Long John scratches,
lights a few matches,
exposing chilled assets
for sweet heat relief.
Don't burn them . . . good grief!

Long John's fishy,
danglings wiggle squishy.
(Pity his poor missy.)
Bright red and itchy,
Johns ain't for foolin'.

Long John slivers--
in haste, they deliver--
and the chips aren't bitter.
The peg leg's phony
but beats baloney.

I need Long John
when ice dangles on line.