You were alive again last night
on The Tavis Smiley Show,
but chemtrails? Chemtrails?
Da fuck, bro?

You say I’ve gotta wake up,
see past the conspiracy.
Say I’ve gotta smarten up,
see the truth behind the mystery.

Oh Prince, Prince,
you know I love you so,
but chemtrails? Chemtrails?
Da fuck, bro?

Look, man, I get it, the mind can wander, hike a few trails:
from rusty nails and gory details to book sales and epic fails;
from blue whales and alpha males to tall tales about females;
from salamander tails to Salamander Shoes.

We trekked all across town
to get our high-tops half-price,
from that guy at Salamander Shoes
who was always so nice.

I’m talking about the store,
just past rue Marie-Anne,
owned and operated,
by that delightful old man.

The people of The Plateau cried
when that sweet old man died.
And they cried still more
when his son closed the store.

They say his son, and rightful heir,
hated the store, and was rarely there.
They say he stopped by, once or twice,
to pick up a check, and make nice-nice.

But even then, he was heard to say,
in a rude and loud, obnoxious way:
“Enough’s enough, can’t take it anymore,
dad’s stupid store is such a fucking bore!”

They say his mother cried,
and just about died,
when she got the news
about Salamander Shoes.

They say this and more about the store.
It’s all a part of the local lore.
But is it true? Is it false?
Hard to be sure.

So I’ll freely admit
that all these tales,
could be as demonstrably false
as chemtrails.

—John Faithful Hamer, From Here: A Love Letter to Montréal (2017)