In a land beyond the mountains,

‘Cross a thousand miles of plain,

Past the province of Ontario,

Where Pierre and Margaret reign,

There’s a land where French is spoken,

By the people large and small,

And the reason for that language-

The can’t speak in ours at all.

In this land within our land,

The people look just like we do,

But they might as well be Martians,

For all the convers-ing we do,

They just voted in that province,

For a man who’s named Levesque,

He would like to make a country,

Out of what is now Quebec.

He would like to make the middle,

Separate from the west and east,

He’s the leader of the party,

That they call the “Separtiste,”

Nova Scotia and New Brunswick,

Newfoundland and P.E.I.

Would be isolated segments,

From the sliced Canadian pie…

Architecturally our country,

Would look funny as could be.

Other countries might complain about,

Our lack of symmetry.

If Quebec should one day bargain,

With the federal government,

Before they go they should repay,

Some money they have spent.

If they leave our proud Dominion,

Then I hope that they will please,

Pay back help with the Olympics,

Welfare payments, subsidies,

Better yet, lets call it even,

If Prime Minister Levesque,

Is satisfied to be the ruler ,

Of a slightly small Quebec.

Give him all the northern portion,

Of that province for his share,

In the south lets have a hallway,

To connect us everywhere,

Then the eastern folk can travel.

Through their country to the west,

And we can leave the TC Highway,

As a Maritimer’s guest.

And Quebecers in our country,

Seeking fun – to have a ball,

A small charge for a foreigner,

To holiday in Montreal!



The first snows of winter are filtering down,

Dark is the colour of country and town,

The green leaves of summer, the glorious fall.

Are merely a memory, a nostalgic recall,

The laughter is over, the jokes all been told,

You yawn in the darkness, outside it is cold.

November is dull, a good month for sleeping

The seasons are over for sowing and reaping,

Too tired to move, you doze in your chair,

You make plans for Christmas but don’t really care.

When from out of the Tube comes the News of the Land,

Like an ostrich you raise up your head from the sand.

“Today on the news, Joe Clark’s phone was bugged!”

“He did it himself,” the Liberals shrug…

“The cops in cahoots with the party in power,

Are devils for bugging,” says Joe, looking dour

“And poor Marc Lalonde,” the announcer asserts,

“Luckily managed to pass up dessert!”

A cream pie was flung by a party unknown.

In Victoria City, at Marc, it was thrown.

A note was attached to this newsworthy pie,

The gourmet confection was loaded with flies!

The flies were symbolic, the gooey note read,

Of “bugging” by Mounties and ’twas on Marc’s head,

And rumours afloat of “mail tamperings for years”

By Mounties, were causing some “Liberal” tears.

In Paris, the news was of Rene Leveque,

They welcomed him as the new kind of Quebec!

Ottawa sent out a note of protest,

“When in France treat Rene like one of the rest,

He doesn’t deserve any higher tribute,

Than Bennett got wearing his jogging suit!”

The weather forecast is for snow in the hills,

Fog in the valleys and temperature chills,

You don’t really mind as you rise from your chair,

The news has removed all the chill from the air,

The National News is often distressing,

But somehow tonight, it seems less depressing,

No matter how boring your life has become,

There are folks out in Ottawa having less fun!





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