Hey hey old mining town
Whose roots are buried so far beneath the ground
Old worn lamps of kerosene
Irish men and brothel scenes
Did you find the gold you were looking for?
There are still people searching here
The vein is struck when they put a house on the hill
Status symbols mixed with the young and impressionable
An array of accents melts in a pot of city slickers and dreaded locks
It’s hard to see what’s happening here
A winner’s circle or an après beer
It’s all the same to me — A tourist when I pass here
If I blend amongst the natives, no one will notice me
I can ski the deepest powder and enjoy the gentrified streets of liquor and fur
The poor are rich with life
And the rich poor with fear
Since they only visit a few times a year

— J.M.