She can’t see splendor of the moonlight on Honolulu Bay,
Can’t take a tender in the moonlight to Honolulu Bay.
She can’t grow peaches up in these reaches:
The climate is all wrong.
In the winter—constant moonlight;
And summer’s not too long.

She’s not right, Yukon’s lei-ly lady;
Yukon’s lei-ly lady’s loose a screw.
She’s nude nights when it’s below, 80;
Yukon’s lei-ly lady’s frigid, blue.
She’s amiss, Yukon’s lei-ly lady—
Thinks that’s she’s living in Kahuku.
Though she’ll freeze, she strums her ukulele
Daily, for the caribou.

When the temp’s high, it isn’t hot.
Nothing will fry; nothing will rot.
Each day she’ll find upon a shelf
Plastic plumeria that she will start braiding
Then into leis—she’s a wacky woo.
She’s not right, Yukon’s lei-ly lady,
Yukon’s lei-ly lady. . .boots eschew.

She’ll take flower strings out at midnight—
Her “Honolulu leis.
Slender muumuu clings in the moonlight
As on tundra she strays.

Some days she’s goin’ where eyes are glowin’
On a canis lupus.
She’ll place a lei and get a wolf bite. . .
Pack thinks: “You can’t dupe us!”

She’s not right, Yukon’ lei-ly lady.
Yukon’ lei-ly lady doffs muumuu.
In snowdrifts often she is wady.
Yukon’s lei-ly lady’s finger food—
She’s amiss, crazy rather than shady—
Tries to whip up caribou puupuu.
Though she’ll freeze, she strums her ukulele
Playing for the caribou.

When the temp’s high, it’s far from hot;
Nothing will fry, and naught will rot.
Each day she’ll take it on herself
To take plastic plumeria and start braiding
Them into leis—she’s a wacky woo
She’s not right, Yukon’s lei-ly lady.
Yukon’s lei-ly lady’s boobs are blue.