Are You Up For A Challenge?

Frig II has many teeth, dear,
And he keeps them, razor sharp.
His back molars, I barely reach, dear.
Hark! Hear that? Is it a harp?

Frig II slices with his teeth, dear
Scarlet droplets begin to spread
Dripping from my sliced right thumb, dear
Now I'm feeling light of head.

Yeah. Frig II is a meanace to Hillmomban society! I was only trying to remove those cubes that lay on the back platform of his storage bin like so many seals upon a whitewashed fake iceberg at the zoo. Trying to knock them off into the bin proper, so they didn't hinder the still-to-come ice cubes seeking solace upon the bin-back like even more seals seeking rest upon that whitewashed zooberg, a plethora of seals, that keep coming and coming and never stop. Kind of like the mail that Newman lamented to Jerry.

The problem with so many ice cubes lounging on the bin-back is the same as the problem with so many seals lounging upon the zooberg. Sooner or later, they're going to be stabbed by a harpoon! Okay. Maybe not at the zoo. They have pretty good security. But in the far reaches of Frig II, those ice cubes are gonna get stabbed by the metal thingy that lifts when the icemaker is jammed, or when the level of cubes is too high in the bin. That metal poking thing gets caught in the hollows of some of the lackluster ice cubes and can't retract.

Which means NO MORE ICE FOR MRS. HILLBILLY MOM! Production ceases. Then it's like when a little kid gets pushed up to the fence in a fancy stroller to see the seals, and there are no seals to see because it's 110 freakin' degrees in the shade during a Missouri heat wave, and the zookeepers do what they're hired for, and keep the seals indoors to chill with the penguins and polar bears. Uh huh. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, sadly, has nobody to push her in a fancy stroller, but she goes to Frig II courtesy of her two feet and finds the ice bin barer than Old Mother Hubbard's cupboard.

So I was just trying to knock those bin-back cubes into the bin proper, when...suddenly I felt a ripping, and then there was that warm blood dripping, dripping from my sliced right thumb. "'Tis a flesh wound," this I muttered, "dripping from my sliced right thumb. Only this, and nothing dumb."

After the initial slice, my wound didn't hurt so much. That's what happens when the implement of injury is ice. I don't think much blood leaked into the ice bin. Seems like the partial-severing of my thumb started with a slow ooze until I had it out in the warm kitchen air inspecting it. Since I was in a hurry to pick up prescriptions and hit the credit union for the #1 son's monthly living money, I decided against a Life Chopper for reattachment and slapped a 10-year-old generic BandAid on my opposable digit to hold it together until healing takes place.

Here in Hillmomba, Frig II keeps churning. The ice keeps cubing and the thumb keeps thumping. One needs adjusting and one needs a suture. And...I'm on my way.

Bonus points if you can glean 2 songs and 1 poem from this venture. Two are virtually gift-wrapped for you. The third is one you might earn after a many-clued scavenger hunt.