Our country reeks of trees
Our yaks are really large
And they smell like rotting beef carcasses
And we have to clean up after them.
Our saddle sores are the best.
We proudly wear women's clothing
And searing sand blows up our skirts.

And the buzzards, they sore overhead
And poisonous snakes will devour us whole.
Our bones will bleach in the sun.
And we will probably to go H***
And that is our great reward
For being the Roy-al
Canadian Kilted Yaksmen!