Seems to me it's about time for words like "moil" and "marge," i.e.,

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
      By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
      That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
      But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
      I cremated Sam McGee.

Forget this Preston stuff. That was TV. Telly. The Boob Toob. Or that radio, which is better, but still not as good as poetry.