Our country reeks of trees
Our yaks are really large
And they smell like rotting beef carcasses
And we have to clean up after them
And our saddle sores are the best
We proudly wear women's clothing
And searing sand blows up our skirts
And the buzzards they soar overhead
And poisonous snakes will devour us whole
our bones will bleach in the sun
And we will probably go to h(bleep)ll
And that is our great reward
For being the Royal Canadian Kilted Yaksmen


(Viva a Desobediência Civíl!)