When Canada's Gone

This is a poem I wrote when I was into those creative writing classes a few years ago, before I started writing romance. I belonged to a different sort of online writers' group then, a literary group, and members tended to be very polarized in their political beliefs and very vocal about them within the group -- which is one reason I'm no longer there. It was during the last presidential election, during which I kept hearing the comment, "If Bush is re-elected, I'm moving to Canada!" This hit my funny bone pretty hard because I'd heard the exact same comment from the other side ("If Gore wins, I'm moving to Canada!") many times in the previous election.
Obviously not too many people actually followed through on that threat, and I'll bet the Canadians heaved a collective sigh of relief that a buttload of intolerant Americans didn't head for the border.

So this poem isn't written from the POV of either the Left or the Right, because it could be from either. It has two titles because I can never seem to pick one.

When Canada's Gone
(or Heaven On Mars)

Where will we go when Canada's gone,
When the last frontier is our front lawn
And all the world's arable acres are taken,
Leaving us only the lands forsaken?

How will we find a place to be
Just what we want in society,
But free of society's bothersome rules
That govern our homes and jobs and schools?

How can they even say with pride,
"I'm an American on right's side!"
When all they ever do for me
Is hinder my individuality?

Can't they see how narrow their view,
Allowing no room for different or new,
Condemning my instincts as base or wrong
Just because I'm not singing their song?

Curtailing my freedoms, promoting their laws,
Is leaving me feeling angry and raw.
I'm about ready to leave this place,
But the only land vacant's in outer space.

I'd better get cracking on manned space flight
If I want a new place to live tonight.
Since no one here agrees with me,
I'll fly away and soon be free

To carry on just as I'd rather
Without a thought for whom I'll bother,
Escaping hate and rules and wars
To make my own little heaven on Mars.

But uh-oh, wait--I just remembered,
I won't get there 'til next September.
That's too long before I arrive,
with no guarantee I'll make it alive.

Perhaps there's nothing for me there,
No water, no food, oh yeah, no air.
At home, these things are always near--
Guess I should learn to get along here.

© 2004 Robin L. Rotham