“A Beaver in Polite Company”
(An Absolutely Epic Ode
for Canada Day, July 1st, 2016)
O frozen fatherland,
I sing of thee –!
From the depths of my igloo
(Or in summer, a teepee)
While moms in babushkas from Hudson’s Bay
Bake their collective, corn-syruped way
All beneath a stunning display
Of shimmering Northern Lights,
(For it is enshrined in the
Charter of Rights
“… WHEREAS the provision of
Being an essential service,
May not suffer even the slightest pause …”
To make a summary:
While exempting pecans
From the “Notwithstanding” clause,
Have ensured every mother will
Obtain her degree from
Butter Tart University,
Majoring in raisins.)
Welcome to Canada,
So cold in December,
But then we remember our
National Winter Sport,
Played on ice, with a puck.
Yet so hot in July,
It takes all our willpower
To manage even a
Nice game of lacrosse.
Yes, this is Canada.
The Superhero who’s always Clark Kent,
As tasty as we might look in tights;
The land where the indigenous people, Inuit, not Eskimo,
Reportedly have a hundred words for snow,
Where we finish our summer vacations
With full septic tanks
And scratching scars from mosquito bites.
And we all give thanks
We need never go to Mars,
Instead, we head to Winnipeg to experience minus fifty—
—(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 to visit meant sailing an ocean,
Then maybe —taking a bus?
Y’all got that wrong, ma’am.
But even knowing our name,
And that we’re north,
Shows, at least for a lady from Texas,
And there in The ‘Peg, we play a traditional game
Where, for good luck, you lick the icy posts of metal fences;
Such innocent fun!
Till we find our tongues are stuck,
And, being Canadian,
Come rapidly back to our senses.
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?
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!
Au revoir! Goodbye! Oh, grandad, it’s true!
Nous sommes tous Canadiens/Canadiennes !
We’re – more or less – glad we knew you!
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 Deluce’s bottom line!
Even considering he’s the man
Who kept us in the dark
About Phase 2, his Porter Airlines 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 Rob Ford, for Heaven decreed
Not just the one, but three, acts of god.
You wanna know 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 was good for a laugh as he redefined “shifty”,
Mayoring 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 – !
At least the Americans, god bless ’em, didn’t go down without a fight!
And the day of your liberation is so close you can almost smell freedom again!
Soon you’ll have Trump, and he’ll
Cancel your atheist, abortion-reeking
Death-paneled healthcare sort-of system.
Where each year you’re not just robbed of two hundred and change by bureaucrats—
What unbearable duress!—
But robbed of your freedom to declare bankruptcy!
We feel your pain! But not to worry.
Far, far better, we confess,
To pay fifty grand to the surgeon
Or, if you’re poor, to be thoughtful and die in a hurry!
And up here we’ll be,
In the U. S. S. C.,
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 homo)
You know for a fact, cause you’ve taken to heart
The incisive reporting you read on Breitbart
That our health-care system, centrally-planned (did
You warn us? You did!)
Is collapsing five-yearly,
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 nearly
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 Jell-O for Bed 4,093, komrad,
And when you can’t take it anymore, Just slip the surgeon
A few crumpled rubles.
If it gets them the Jell-O, hell, oh he might
Do you a favour.
O, Cana-DA – !
The dad of current Person-Called-Trudeau, who coincidentally
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;
Plus the occasional attack of
Restless Leg Syndrome;
And a tendency to, 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
A reader has made the sniffy comment that my ode is “not very catchy”.
This is the kind of entitled, sour-grapes kind of sniping from political hobbyists that I’m forced to endure these days, and I’m well aware that this goes hand-in-hand with the kind of celebrity I enjoy now that my stats are well above 10.
Bernie Sanders told me to expect this and I didn’t believe him, well, no one did, really, and it’s to his eternal discredit that he didn’t mention this to me earlier.
Yeah, way to go, Trouble-Hair, and I’m just about fed up enough to reveal you stole that campaign slogan from your local Indian restaurant, “Mama Patel’s Tandoori Palace And Head Shop Buy Your Stiffie Pills Heer-Walla”.
“Feel the Bern”, indeed.
WhateVVVVVER. I welcome the completion of our “Giant Ice Palace from The French People” border wall once the sun goes down again, around August, which is when email transmission becomes dodgy, unless you’re with Rogers and never had any to begin with.
But you know, and can I just say, seriously. Try dancing my ode to the tune of that traditional Newfoundland fiddle classic, “Maple Syrup for my Beaver, Welfare for my Cod” and you’ll feel your toes tapping soon enough.
Even Ashley MacIsaac couldn’t piss on that one.
[PPS: Justin – Called 83 times since 3AM but goes to VM, WTF??? The percs and the razor blades are lined up and I’m running a hot bath, so if you don’t want this on your conscience you better get your “cul” over here and continue our conversational French. Capisce?
Just tell Sophie you’re “going jogging so you can test drive those new socks.” Yeah, that’ll work.
Ditchez la biche et faites le Switch, baby. Ah, oui, tabernac, Marie-Joseph !!!!]