Late

af-

ter-

noon,

a-

no-

ther

day

is

near-

ly

done

A

dar-

ker

grey

is

brea-

king

through

a

ligh-

ter

one

A

thou-

sand

shar-

pened

el-

bows

in

the

un-

der-

ground

That

hol-

low,

hur-

ried

sound

Of

feet

on

po-

lished

floor

And

in

the

dol-

lar

store

The

clerk

is

clo-

sing

up

And

coun-

ting

loon-

ies,

trying

not

to

say

I

hate

Win-

ni-

peg

The

dri-

ver

checks

the

mirror,

se-

ven

mi-

nutes

late

The

crow-

ded

ri-

ders'

rest-

less-

ness

e-

nun-

ci-

ates

The

Guess

Who

suck,

the

Jets

were

lou-

sy

a-

ny-

way

The

same

route

e-

ve-

ry

day

And

in

the

tur-

ning

lane

Some-

one's

stalled

a-

gain

He's

tal-

king

to

him-

self

And

hears

the

price

of

gas

re-

peat

his

phrase

I

hate

Win-

ni-

peg

And

up

a-

bove

us

all,

lea-

ning

in-

to

sky

A

gol-

den

busi-

ness

boy

will

watch

the

north

end

die

And

sing

"I

love

this

town"

Then

let

his

ar-

cing

wreck-

ing

ball

pro-

claim

I

hate

Win-

ni-

peg