A Cuban missile crisis:
Kruschev, a bombastic Russian,
A black bear of a man Banged his shoe at the U.N.
Barked missiles would bury the City.
A family survival plan:
Pored over the nearest map,
Discovered Prince Edward Island,
An eighteen hour drive away.
Fish and potatoes abound
Far from the ominous
Screams of the world
And the mene,mene
Sailing across the Strait of Northumberland
Abegweit's horns blast a welcoming bellow,
Red soil of the island comes into view.
We dance on the bow of the ferry.
Islanders live on an elysian field,
Folks from away drawn to the isle
Cherished for habits of
Civility all but gone
From this Pecksniffen world.
Drivers wait for pedestrians,
Hardly anyone locks their door.
As Satchmo sang:
"When Islanders say howydo-do
They really mean it too."
The Russians have tumbled
City still stands,
New threats conspire.
Best bulls eye remains
Twenty-one million souls of the City.
Gemutlichkeit spirit of the Island
Nobody's popular target.
The one and only place to be!