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About a gunshot away thereâ€™s a place that I long to beâ€”tippinâ€™ bottles with me
old cock. When the shitâ€™s all said and sorted, I plan to settle down and stayâ€”one
middle finger to the landlocked. From the first time boatinâ€™ oâ€™r thereâ€™s not too much
I can recall. I kissed a plastic cod and drank rum till I was friggered. I decided then
and there that Iâ€™d return, even if I had to crawl. Something outside was broken and
something inside me, triggered. Itâ€™s a long ride home, but itâ€™s always my destination.
Itâ€™s a long ride home. If the sun bursts apart at the end of the world, I donâ€™t think
I will give a damn as long as Iâ€™m surrounded by friends and pints in goddamned
Newfoundland. So hereâ€™s to Newfoundland. I breathed a sigh of relief the next time
steppinâ€™ off the plane. Itâ€™d been a long, hard, vapid winter. Johnny and the boys
were waiting there ready to explain, they werenâ€™t there to drive us, just a welcome
back to the Island. So we taxied to the venue to prepare for the night to sweep.
Slept in the back room until the India showed up. When we finally took the stage,
it shifted beneath our feet. We stood on the shoulders of proud Newfoundlanders.
And I think it bears repeating that no one buckled under. We all got bit by the cod
that we all kissed. It left an infection in our lips and a longing in the mist. Youâ€™re
as deep as the grave, and youâ€™re marching to the heartbeat of the land. Yes, I be a
Newfoundlander Bâ€™y. Not by birth, but in m y heart. Yes, I be a Newfoundlander Bâ€™y.