Snow Lake on the Mud
In Northern Manitoba where they blast the rocks for gold,
There's a camp that's full of miners - or so the tale is told;
They are tough and hairy Canucks and mucking's in their blood
And they call the place they work in "Snow Lake on the Mud."
 
It's not the usual kind of mud that dries up in the sun,
It's mud that cakes your boots and makes them weigh a ton;
It swallows rocks and pine trees - and children too they say,
For kiddies drown in mud holes, say two or three a day.
 
It's squeezy mud, it's greasy mud, it slithers and it slops,
And no matter how high your boots are, it'll get in through the tops;
It squelches to the lakeside and it suffocates the fish,
And oozes through the cookhouse roof and gets in every dish.
 
It bubbles neath the sidewalks, it slushes through the door,
And gurgles like an eerie spook beneath the bunkhouse floors;
You'll find it in your finger nails and gooing up your toes;
And dripping from your ears and mouth and stopping up your nose.
 
It's mud that there's no name for, it's unspeakable, it's vile,
It's only fit for water snakes or slimy crocodiles;
So when you think of heroes who for country and their blood,
Just spare a thought for miners in "Snow Lake on the Mud."
 
- Charlie Reid, author