Our country reeks of trees,
Our yaks are really large, 
And they smell like rotting beef caracasses.
And we have to clean up after them,
And our saddle sores are the best,
We proudly wear women's clothing,
And searing sands blow up our skirts.
And the buzzards; they soar overhead,
And poisonous snakes will devour us whole,
Our bones will bleach in the sun.
And we will probably go to HELL,                  -FART
But that is our great reward,
For being the-uh royal,
Canadian Kilted Yaksmen.
