Ghost of a flea

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
And our saddle sores are the best
We proudly wear women's clothing
And searing sand blows up our skirts

And buzzards, they soar overhead
And poisonous snakes devour us whole
Our bones will bleach in the sun.
And we will probably go to hell
And that is our great reward
For being the-uh-roy-yal
Canadian kilted yaksmen

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
And out saddle sores are the best
We proudly wear women's clothing
And searing sand blows up our skirts

And buzzards, they soar overhead
And poisonous snakes devour us whole
Our bones will bleach in the sun
And we will probably go to hell
And that is our great reward
For being the-uh-roy-yal
Candian kilted yaksmen