With apologies to Robert Service, here's another one, this one from Linda Birchall.
There's strange things done in the Midnight Sun
By the folks who love the Race.
They'll come from near and they'll come from far
Just to get near to that place.
And the reason's clear, tho' I very much fear
That it sounds like it's all a dream.
They come for fun and to watch the run
Of each very good sleddog team.
Now some you see are from Tennessee
Where the weather's a good bit warmer.
Those who are bold come into the cold
From the state of California.
The South it seems love to see these teams
Of Northern dogs on the run.
But they're not nuts, they just don't see mutts
Run in snow `neath the Southern sun.
Then there's them folk, and it's no joke,
Who trade one cold for another.
When you ask them why, you'll hear them cry
I'm here because I'd druther.
They jump on a plane from the State of Maine
And head for the Forty-Ninth State.
Montanans too are people who
Leave home for a Northern date.
The facts are clear that every year
This group of friends gets together.
To watch a Race in the last Great Place
No matter what the weather.
They volunteer and haul their gear
To wherever the Race may start.
It's all because those doggy paws
Have captured each person's heart.
Friendships this warm so often form
When folks love a common thing.
Their eyes burn bright well into the night
And their hearts will all take wing.
They'll gather near each and every year
And swear by the grace of God,
Through thick and thin and wearin' a grin,
They'll make the next Iditarod.
When the sun goes down in Anchorage town
And the sky gets a trifle dusky,
If you hear a howl, from a dear, sad pal
It's me, not an Alaskan husky.
So gather near, I'll wipe away my tear
And I'll swear by all that's true,
That when the roll is called right there in the cold
Next year I'll surely be there too