Lyrics:

Dear Ron MacLean, dear Coach's Corner
I'm writing in order
For someone to explain to my niece the distinction
Between these mandatory pre-game group rites of submission

And the rallies at Nuremburg, specifically the function
The ritual serves in conjunction
With what everybody knows is, in the end, a kid's game
I'm just appealing to your sense of fair play

When I say she's puzzled by
This incessant pressure for her to not defy
Collective will and yellow-ribboned lapels
As the soldiers inexplicably repel

Down from the arena rafters
Which, if not so insane, would be grounds for screaming laughter

Dear Ron MacLean, I wouldn't bother with these questions
If I didn't sense some spiritual connection
We may not be the same but it's not like we're from different planets
We both love this game so much we can hardly fucking stand it

Alberta-born, prairie-raised
Ain't a sheet of ice north of Fargo I ain't played
From Penhold to the Gatineau
Every fond memory of childhood that I know

Is somehow connected to the culture of
This game, I just can't let it go

I guess it comes down to
What kind of world you want to live in
Diversity is disagreement, disagreement is treason
Well, don't be surprised if we find ourselves reaping

A strange and bitter fruit that that sad old man beside you
Keeps feeding to young minds as virtue
It takes a village to raise a child, just a flag to raze the children
Until they're nothing more than ballast for fulfilling

A madman's dream
Of a paradise
Complexity
Reduced to black and white

How do I
Protect her from
This cult of death?