My girlfriend from Canada really exists, no matter what she says.
She’s coming down from Montreal any week, and looks really hot in a fez.
She argues, “No, I’m not! You made me up! I’m only words on a screen!”
But she is much more than that real late at night, if you know what I mean.
She keeps on rocking me. She keeps on rolling me. She keeps on loving me
right up there in Canada!
Canada-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh!
Canada!
Canada-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh!

“Come on!” Esmerelda screams at me, when she gets out of class
(She’s a twenty-five year old grad student, with a fine, fine… mind).
“You’re not even painting a detailed description of a girl.
How is this vague figure you’ve imagined expected to rock your world?”
She does more than rock me. She really loves me. She is my whole life
when I visit up in Canada!
Canada-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh!
Canada!
Canada-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh!

“Please believe me,” she cries out, “If I were real, I might like you.
You’re a nice guy, you’re funny. You’re smart and you’re kind.
But you’re something far less than true. You keep making these stories up;
trying to impress us all. Someone’s gotta keep you honest, else you’re gonna take a fall.”

Canada!
Canada-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh!
Canada!
Canada-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh!

“All right, you got me,” Esme says, “I was playing hard to get.
“I can’t wait to come down in my leatherette outfit.”
“Now hold on, baby!” I reply, “This is getting kind of real.”
“I am not at this moment all that sure just how I feel.
Maybe you should hold off on your next trip down
from the wilds of…
Canada!
Canada-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh!
Canada!
Canada-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh!