We were 33 million red clad revelers
Hearts pounding, fists pumping
Like we’d just found a box of free porn
It was our time in the sun
And the rain and the slush in the
Bars from Commercial to Khatsalano
But the clock has now stopped
Bathed in lipstick, dried vomit and urine
Just like Nagano, Salt Lake and Turin
The flame has been snuffed like a
Black market 8 mm thriller, while Quatchi’s
Turned rabid and our hangovers throb
Like bad disco
The echoes of memories chatter "did it happen?"
It seems like goodbye is all we have left
So like millions of lemmings on the edge of a cliff
We’re ready to drown in a sea of athletic
Post coital boredom
But all is not lost, my friends
We still have something to hold on to: something
Slick and wet as a West Coast shoreline
Spread wide and open as the Canadian Prairies,
Gnawing on logs and damning the torpedoes
In the backwoods and campgrounds
Of our great country
We still have the beavers
Inflatable, flyable utterly undeniable
French Beavers, Bilingual Beavers, Beavers in
Burkas and Turbans, Buble Beavers,
Sutherland Beavers, the Beavers of William Shatner
Boldy going where no beaver has ever gone before
Sitting on the face of Stephen Harper
Leave it to the beavers
To inspire us
Merci beaucoups les castor
