I've schussed the world's runs with skis parabolic,
I jump so high, I touch the sky.
I swill well drinks, but I'm no alcoholic,
Some wine I'll try; sometimes I'm dry.
But after a bout of quite heavy drinking,
Comes alloyed dawn; boist'rousness gone.
I breathe some icy air, I'm clearly thinking,
Then one last yawn. . .my skis are on.

Siftin', driftin, the snow's fallin' hard,
Sittin', mittened, in this little car. . .
Fun to go ski, funicular runs us to ski, funicular.
The funicular runs us to ski in funny car.

Snow deep is where the ski patrol pounds signs in
To mark trails well; to me they yell:
"That triple diamond you should not be tryin',
It's steep as hell; most who've tried fell.
And landed on their heads or legs or asses
Or hurried on into pines' spawn.
We advise you to go and take some classes."
But I just yawn, and then I'm gone.

Hittin', hittin', trees that aren't soft. . .hard!
Splittin', splittin', a leg and an arm.
Not fun to ski when fibula has come to meet the tibia.
Park me in the car, run me via funicular.