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The Yukoner

 He burned a hole in frozen muck,
He pierced the icy mould,
And there in six-foot dirt he struck
A sack or so of gold.
He burned holes in the Decalogue, And then it cam about, For Fortune's just a lousy rogue, His "pocket" petered out.
And lo! 'twas but a year all told, When there in a shadow grim, In six feet deep of icy mould They burned a hole for him.

Poem by Robert William Service
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