In Canada every Saturday night,
There's a ritual we're used to seeing.
We look forward to it the rest of the week, b
Because it's part of our national being.

It's that moment right after the first period,
The one we look forward to sharing.
When we gasp and we say to each other in awe,
"look at what Don Cherry's wearing!"

Now Don is a man who has high self-esteem
And it doesn't need to be bolstered.
Through TV he enters right into our homes,
Not so much dressed as upholstered.
As a nation all sits on their couches
And watches philosophy that isn't Plato.
A coach who is dressed as a couch
Is addressing a nation of couch potatoes.

His ties are so bright you can see them from space.
His collar looks like a neck brace.
You may criticize, you may even scoff.
But there's only one man who can pull it off.

Sometimes he looks like a crazed checkerboard
Or a map by Rand and McNally.
But mostly he comes off as a cross between
Lawrence Welk and Salvador Dali.

May his blazer still blaze, his collar still rise,
May his ties never grow paler.
May every Canadian cherish the prize
Of the skill of Don Cherry's tailor.