Wednesday, April 9, 2008

prarie poem

This was emailed to me by a friend who recently shifted from "the prairies" to Vancouver. The irony: 
Author Unknown

When it's Christmas on the prairies   
And the gentle breezes blow,

About sixty miles an hour

And it's forty-five below.
You can tell you're  on the prairies 

'Cause the snow's up to your butt,

And you take a breath of Christmas air

And your nostrils both freeze shut.

The weather here is wonderful,

So I guess I'll hang around,

I could NEVER leave  the prairies 

My feet are frozen to the ground!


Mr T said...

As one who has recently returned from the said city, I can advise that the buildings look like they were put up last week and I would rather look down Portage Avenue anyday.

BUT - they have rain, and mountains, and rivers, and whales, and fish and chips with onion rings and tartare sauce, and 60 flavours of ice-cream, and home made fudge, and haggis, and a steam clock, and Scottish people and - you have just got to love it.

I guess life on the praries all comes down to how high your butt is off the ground..

Caitlin said...

love the new picture at the top!