I'm looking at your lofty head
Away up in the air.
Eight thousand feet above the plain
Where grows the prickly-pear.
A great big thing with ice on,
You seem to be up there.

Away above the timber-line
You lift your frosty head,
Where lightnings are engendered;
And thunderstorms are bred;
But you'd be a bigger tract of land
If you were thin out-spread.