It is in the alembic of the climate That the blood is refined, coagulated. Hitler thought we were the best people of all. Praise the cold, not us. Praise the snow, not my flesh. The low angle of the sun in the northlands Meant that who thrived were those with skin and hair That could absorb more of it from less of it. Darker than Mexicans in June, And, in February, whiter than a Brit. And those grim English that conquered the world, Long ago we conquered them, them, and their girls. We have just two emotions: anger and joy: The purest, and we are not emotionless As some claim, but we do laugh very richly On the fools the southern sun has made insane, And double the amplitude of our laughter When they furrow their brows trying to look up With the frigid pain they have made their master, Cold not with the sun’s lack, but with pure evil, That very small and very pathetic thing.
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