I’ve had it: Just as we get ice,
the temperature climbs and climbs!
My ice axe tinkles paltry ice,
though best of all my finds
But I know that there’s an answer,
and we’re off to Thetford Mines.

You say you’ve never heard of,
that place called Thetford Mines?
Just point your car’s nose northward,
and start following the signs
And four and a half hours later,
you’ll spot the lake at Thetford Mines

I thought Maine was just as nifty,
as any iceman finds
‘Til the smokestacks of Republicans
blew heat from southern climes
And now my heart is yearning
for the ice of Thetford Mines

Thetford has a secret,
while our southern heart repines:
When winds blast from Alberta,
and the mercury declines,
The locals smile and cavort about,
on the lakes of Thetford Mines.

I’ll find a sassy French girl,
who dresses to the nines
Who cooks a wicked bouillabaisse
with a broth of lemon rinds
In her cottage on the ice-edge
in little Thetford Mines

So we’ll leave you ice-nuts languishing
in endless weather binds
Bill and I’ll come limping back
when summer’s on our minds
To bathe and tell you fables
of the ice at Thetford Mines