Oh Baby, how about a kiss? You said, “Ok, but I don’t wanna do this.” Here’s me as a mover. Me as a mover. Got no opinion listening to the yessing of the snow, there’s no pressure, I’m not less sure I’m ready to go. “Oh I dare ya! Oh Daddy take us everywhere!” Me as a mover. Me as a mover. Got no opinion watching a dead leaf etching on the snow, the slow gesture, I’m even less sure of which way to go. “Oh everything is leaving, it seems there’s wings on everything. Oh.” Oh baby, how about that kiss? You said, “OK, but I still don’t wanna do it.” Here’s me as a mover. Me as a mover. Me, I’m the mover.
The Hard Canadian, he don’t have much to say but he hurts your feelings almost every single day. Takes a puff-a-nothin, picks something from his tongue, he’s the Hard Canadian. The Hard Canadian doesn’t care what you do. The Hard Canadian don’t give a damn about you. What’s a windswept face, the elusive presence of the sun, to the Hard Canadian? The Hard Canadian is all darkness in his heart but for the glow of her nightgown through the dark. Yea, but then he blurs the image, drags his brush through the wet pigment, cause he’s the Hard Canadian. His berating heart, grown thorny with sin and oh the silences, he don’t listen to them. Whether he’s just mean or willfully dense, he says, ‘from life nothing; to death nothing.’ The hard Canadian is what he throws away and he hurt her feelings almost every single day. Now he takes a shot of nothing, stares off remembering someone. That’s the hard canadian. That’s the hard canadian. He’s the hard canadian.
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Museum of Canadian Music