This poem is a strange, elongated haiku-type-thing about Canadian stereotypes because I find them amusing. so, yah. I hope you like it!

The trees are tapped,
Maple Syrup running out.
Canadians wait.

At the hockey rink,
There is a fine syrup stand;
The only food eaten.

Deep in the forest,
Run by a moose is a stand,
A, fine, syrup stand.

A door is held open,
Politeness awaits throughout
The nice syrup stand.

Tim Hortons is life,
They sell the best syrup there.
Fresh, handmade syrup.

Cold in my igloo,
The dog sled outside, frozen.
I drink my syrup.

Straight out the bottle,
Syrup pours into my mouth,
It's a-boot time, ey?