(An Absolutely Epic Ode for Canada Day, July 1st, 2016)
Hail, socialist snow-globe! Frozen fatherland!
Where moms in babushkas from Hudson’s Bay
Bake their collective way
through corn-syrup nights!
(For it is enshrined in the Charter of Rights
That all female komrads – wards of the State from birth to baby-bonus to personopause,
right up until they’re dead –
Attain their Ph.D. from
Butter Tart Proletarian University !)
Welcome to Canada, the Sort-Of-Mighty, the Kind-Of-Powerful!
To the Land of the Putative War Against Cars!
From here, we need never go to Mars.
Instead, we go to Winnipeg to experience minus 50
– (that’s approximately a nifty
Freeze your ass off, eh?
in American, non-communist temperature systems –
And while we’re at it, kudos to the lady from Texas who had heard of us,
Though she thought it meant sailing across an ocean,
Then maybe – taking a bus?
You got it wrong, ma’am, but even knowing our name, and that we’re north,
Shows, at least for a lady from Texas, rare devotion) –
And there in The ‘Peg, we play an Inuit game that involves licking the metal bars
Cause it’s such innocent fun when our tongues get stuck.
And we all put chains on the tires of our cars.
We wear plaid shirts, and we wear combinations,
We summer in Muskoka where all Hollywood vacations
and we never never never, I mean NEVER go to Mars!
Land of clear-your-ice, your winter civic duty!
We even declared Family Day in February,
So we can be sure of finding an ice floe
For packing with our elderly, so it will be a nice flow
Up the Saint Lawrence and out to sea.
Frankly, in February,
They’re too cold to
Make a commotion.
“Here’s the snow shovel, grandad! Don’t bother with the salt!
Or the commie-red Canadian Winter Olympics toque that would cover
what’s left of your hair!
And remember to leave my St-Jean-Baptiste Day card by the leftover tourtière!
Hey, how’s that hip replacement? Still hurtin’?”
Ah, Kwanzaa-lights on fir trees!
I mean, pine!
The ring of the shovel on ice!
Each step a crunch of
Canadian Tire mukluk,
You can be certain!
Mon dieu ! Qu’est-ce qui ce passe ?!??
His asthmatic wheezing, the left arm pain!
“Don’t worry, children, I feel just fine — !”
As he falls, pardon my French, on his ass!
The sudden thump, the lifeless lump of –
“Here’s your Timmies hot chocolate, Grandad!
Did you decide to have a little nap?
And why did you take off one new mukluk?
Your face and hands are a funny shade of blue!
Grandad? Grandad??!! Holy fuck!!!”
Au revoir! Goodbye! Oh, grandad, it’s true!
Nous sommes tous Canadiens/Canadiennes !
We’re Canadian! We’re – more or less – glad we knew you!
Quoi ???? Ahhh, croyez donc, c’est pas de problème !!
Land of fortitude, of hunky men!
Land of Lumberjacks, RCMP’s!
And a dishy, non-crazy Prime Minister who makes us all weak at the knees,
Whatever his (to an American, anyway) socialist-verging-on-North-Korean proclivities!
Goodbye, general elections!
Hello, seeing Justin
And getting erections!
Cause…. He’s… the…
Yes! he’s the Person-called-Trudeau!
His dad was Pierre, his mom was Maggie,
He’s working real hard to make legal the “baggie” –
That’s all you have to know, you know?
That’s all you have to know!
And this dynasty henceforth defines our nation –
Wait forty years, till little Emperor Hadrien – the Person-Called-Trudeau for our grandkids’ generation – ascends the throne
(Yes, though Trickie Dickie’s a tiny bit too dead to have that conversation – )
Godless refuge of the Devil’s Own North!
Where atheist gays marry dogs with impunity
And polygamy is mandatory, on penalty of death !
Where Québec’s Satanic priests (The original Hell’s angels),
Are allocated one free orphaned choirboy yearly by the State,
And la biche, one permitted per authorized family unit, is kept “on ze side, heins?”
– or else on a leash –
‘Cause to be célibataire is –
Even for a priest with stale whisky breath –
Too awful to contemplate!
All together, now – !
« Tabernac ! »
« Marie-Joseph ! »
Where the word “beaver” is always appropriate in polite company!
Polite company being all of us.
Canadians are so un-apt to make any kind of fuss, Lenin only knows!
Why, we’ll apologize to YOU
When YOU step on OUR toes!
O, Canada, Canada!
Poor we! These chains that chafe and bind us!
Only a measly handful of banks, who tend, discreetly, to remind us
When our credit’s getting a teensy bit high.
Now what kind of attitude is that?
At this rate, we’ll never make first-class!
I mean, when did we
ever destroy the entire world’s economy?
Moss Park rebuilt, as though somewhere nice to live is what poor people deserve !
The Spadina Expressway, The Island Airport, cancelled – for what?!
Who needs old houses anyway, and parks, and waterfronts – and — !
Cancelled for sheer lack of
– well, it’s about time someone said it –
Nerve, that’s what! Nerve!
But that’s us, so lax, no greed!
So callously indifferent to Porter’s bottom line!
Even considering he kept us in the dark
About Phase 2, his plan
To put the runways in High Park.
So lacking in get-up-and-go, that’s we!
So lacking in so many things we need, like –
A casino on Front Street.
A ferris wheel.
Those died with Ford, just our luck,
Not one but three acts of god.
You wanna know just how bad it is?
We’re not even aspirational enough to want
Our own loud, nasty, thin-skinned fraud!
Poor old fat dumb regular-guy Robbie.
He never realized we just needed a good laugh for a few months
While he ran Toronto like a teen with an I.Q. of 50,
A pipe full of “hard”,
And a not very interesting hobby.
Even then, we didn’t complain. We just voted. How boring!
We didn’t even complain when that Tommy Douglas forced us!
Forced us to have health care!
Took our hard earned dollars, of course,
But what’s worse, stole our god-given right of ignoring
the tumors until they’re big as a horse.
Too late it dawned on us:
Yeah, right! Make us live longer
And then you’ll have longer to fuck us over with more taxes, oh yes,
We’re onto you! We get the agenda – !
Gone, thanks to unser Kommandant Douglas, jawohl!
Gone forever our god-given freedom to declare bankruptcy!
Far, far better, we confess,
To pay that surgeon fifty thousand
And another fifty thousand to the hospital
Than to be robbed each year of two hundred and change by bureaucrats!
What unbearable duress!
Thank you, Nanny State! Great Big Brother Government!
At least the Americans, god bless ’em, didn’t go down without a fight!
We feel your pain! But not to worry.
Why, the day of your liberation is so close you can almost smell freedom again!
Soon you’ll have Trump, and he’ll fire
President Towel-Head and his niqab-clad wife and daughters, those uppity niggers,
And cancel your atheist, abortion-reeking death-panelled healthcare sort-of system
So you can – thank-you, Jesus! –
go back to paying two hundred thousand plus tax for a house call
(assuming you have no pre-existing conditions and stay in your current job as Happiness Engineer at Arby’s)
or just – die in a hurry!
That’s the beauty of choice, of dog-eat-dog and survival of the fittest!
(Oh, yes – you believe in evolution alright,
Just selectively, when it makes a good sound-byte…)
And up here we’ll be,
In the Union of Soviet Socialist Kanada,
Little Stalins in fetters, cyanotic with envy,
In the land where nothing’s black and white, just white and red,
Where an evening’s entertainment is lining up for scraps of bread,
And where a Sikh can be a cop, wear a turban on his head!
(Our citizens all disarmed! Can’t even spend commercial breaks
Protecting our women-folk from stampeding herds of buffalo
Or mowing down traitors – or the occasional –
Now there’s at least an efficient death-panel! ) –
In the land where, as you well know from seeing Fox TV,
Our own atheist abortion-reeking tyrannical
Health-care system, collapsing five-yearly, centrally-planned (did
You warn us? You did!)
Why, you could see your wife admitted to the crumbling
Central People’s Hospital of Torontokistan while in labour
– and not even be issued your visitor’s pass until it’s time to greet the first grandkid!
“Zut, alors!” cries People’s Revolutionary Atheist Abortion-Assistant Marxist Midwife, Rank 34,
“It is imperative that we find more raspberry Jell-O for Bed 4,093, komrad, 48th floor!”
And when you can’t take it anymore, just slip the surgeon
A few crumpled rubles. If it gets him the Jell-O, hell, oh he might
Do you a favour.
O, Canada – !
The dad of current Person-Called-Trudeau, Who
Was himself also A Person Called Trudeau, and so on and forth,
That to live with our restive pal, our buddy to the south
Was rather like sharing a peanut- and shrapnel-filled bed
(Alright, I’m putting a few extra words in his mouth)
With an elephant – an elephant with sleep apnea and a tendency
To get restless legs, and every so often
Just out and out
He made the joke, if you check the fact,
Just before enacting the War Measures Act.
Which was itself a shove and a half.
Nonetheless, Quebeckers always have the last laugh, because –
We have to sing O, CanaDA, forever that way.
The word-setting works perfectly – but only en français.
They were first to get their hat in.
Terre de nos aïeux.
Je me souvien –
And O, CanaDA,
No matter who may
A Mari Usque Ad Mare!
Or, rough translation from the Latin:
©David Roddis, 2016—2017
“[The flag] will symbolize to each of us—and to the world—the unity of purpose and high resolve to which destiny beckons us.”
—His Excellency Major-General the Right Honourable Georges Vanier,
Governor-General of Canada (1959 – 1965),
at the Inauguration of
the National Flag of Canada,