I miss my home. The people there
Mix grudging hope with sweet despair.
They’ll have your company, not just your money.
They’re mongrel Scots, Acadians,
And other good Canadians
Who get when life is sad and when it’s funny.
I find it hard, try as I might,
To understand the Dallasite,
That prairie heat-bred strain of local fauna—
The way he always shouts his news,
The way he pushes through the queues,
His citizen’s contempt for marijuana.
The people never “hang out” here—
They make a date to have a beer!
The Dallasite means business—work or play.
I’m sure someday I’ll miss this place.
I’ll mourn all that I can’t replace
When time, that old, bald cheater, slips away.
(Image from cdn.stereogum.com.)
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