Nice, very nice. We are very nice.
We are a nice nation, we are nice people.
Everyone likes us. We like everyone.
We like to be liked. We are nice.
Our children are nice. When we travel,
we are nice. The world likes us.
Canadians are nice people.
In twenty ten, we hosted the nice
winter Olympics, and the world liked
our Olympics. We were nice.
Our athletes were nice. Our police were nice.
Our daily papers were nice. Our city was nice.
Our mountains were nice. Our snow was nice.
Even when there was no snow, we were nice.
Nice, like Mr. Furlong, who organized our nice
winter Olympics for us. A nice winter Olympic event.
Everything was nice. In the bars nice people
cheered for Canada. Nice, Canada.
But, in some downtown, run down bars,
ones where people who are not nice,
sit and drink way back in the dark corners
of these low-down places there were strange,
bad people, whose voices you could barely hear
who said we are not nice. Ugly voices, from mean,
ugly people. They said Canada was not
a nice country. They said we are mean.
They said we lied. They said we lie.
They said we are not nice.
They said we hurt them. They said
we stole their land. They said
we stole their children. They said
we raped their little boys and girls.
These people were like rats peering out of dark,
dirty places with squeaky voices, making
scurrying sounds. But, they said we are not nice.
They said we robbed them, we hurt them.
They are not nice. They also said our man,
Mr. Furlong, hurt them. He is a nice man.
But, they say he lied. They said he is a liar.
and was not a nice man. They are not nice.
They said bad things about our country.
Our nice country. But, Americans, like us.
Australians like us. New Zealanders like us.
The English like us. Europeans like us.
Israelis like us. Everyone who matters likes us.
We are nice. How can these bad people
say these things about us, nice Canadians.
They, are not nice.
We, are nice, very, very nice.
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Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (Nice by Mike Acker )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
William Ernest Henley
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