For reasons not entirely clear,
The earth tilted too far on its axis
And everybody in North America
Slid south. Over the border
Into those regions filled with
Drug dealers, psychopathic gangs,
Men asleep in doorways
Beneath their sombreros,
Women with babies on their backs,
Rivers filled with crocodiles,
Jungles alive with wild beasts,
Cities steaming with lust and corruption.
The Canadians made the best of things,
Learned the language, the geography,
The culture far older and more exquisite
Than they had ever imagined
In their smug northern sanctuary.
But the Americans could not be bothered
To learn to say more than, cerveza, por favor.
They called all the men Jose,
And all the young women Chiquita.
And wondered where all the burros were.
© Dennis Hathaway
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