O Canada! my Canada! our fateful foe is trip’d,
The ship of state has weather’d the worst, the prize they sought has slip’d,
And so they stay–aw, beauty, eh–the populace exhaling,
While fallow lie the separatist fields, the vassal glum and glaring,
But O tempora! O morris! O jeez–
O the stains of hatred splay
Ou dans le dock, la reve etait,
Fallen cold and dead, eh.

O Canada! my Canada! rise up, shepherds, and skoal!
Rise up–for thee the flag is wrung–for you the doughnut hole,
For you the beers, the Cuban smokes–for you the mass a-writhing,
For you, they call, a clear call that cannot be decried:
Hear Canada! dear bother!
Their aim beneath disdain!
It was some dream deferred they had,
Fallen cold and dead, eh.

My Canada does not answer, his lips agape and wet,
The celebration’s drunken in, the ales hale and well met,
The state is anchor’d safe and whole, its union momentary;
From fearsome fight, the victor ship still faces future wary.
Expostulate, O Anglophones,
As I in mourning may
Walk Quebec, the sovereign state
Fallen cold and dead, eh.

I have seen the carriage passing by
With Emily inside;
it is moving day.
Franchot Tone takes a holiday
to help. The reaper signs
his lease.
Though boxes be lost, most are not.
Even abstract concepts, parts of nature
can’t get good help these days.
And death shall have condominium.

The freight elevator snaps a
frayed cable snaps–
plummeting, it kills the super.
Super.
Rental truck rolls, rolls
its brakes broken; oh,
the incline, oh, the landlord,
oh, the humanity.
Though deaths be coincidental, there must be
a connection; the tenants are dropping like flies.
And death shall have condominium.

There’s no one left to talk with now.
He couldn’t help his name–
he wasn’t here on business, just wanted a room
of his own, although he cannot stand it, stopping here,
For year by year, he is alone.
Again.
Though neighbors be dead, one thing is good.
The reaper, cold fish that he is,
has the pool all to himself.
And death shall have condominium.

Whose weeds these are I think I know,
His house is mine own, although
I cannot see it, stopping here
For year by year, these damn weeds grow

My little child must think it queer
To look, not see the farmhouse near
Between the weeds and icy lake,
The coldest workday of the year

He gives his little hands a shake
To see if I will let him take
A break from our sworn job to keep
Of clearing out with heavy rake

The weeds are hell, both dark and deep,
But I have premises to keep,
And weeds to hoe before I reap,
And weeds to hoe before I reap.