Good To Go.

Across the pond
Where loonies belong
With fur all black
Instead of gray
So much the same
To be thought foreign
What makes the soil
An infidel?
Who tells the fish
To pay his duty?
My change was spent
On tom-foolery.
An empty account
From a bystander
Has rendered me
Completely broke.
I thought about
migrating once
Until I bought
My first litre.
It's not so bad
I tell myself
The miles cheap
For what it's worth.
If only you could
Get patched up
Without losing
Your twisted mind.