Ross Murray's Border Report
Ross Murray
is a freelance writer living in Stanstead, Quebec. You can reach him at
Posted 2.21.17
Stanstead, Quebec


I want to be the guy who drives the snowplough

O, I want to be the guy who drives the snowplough through the town.
A vanquisher of snowstorms, mighty king of streets and roads.
How I wish I were admired for my ploughing skills and courage
As I drive and sing the hits of Hall & Oates.

O, I want to sit inside the cab atop my splendid beast,
As the blizzard swirls around me, as it rattles from the skies.
I would push the snow and crush it in this transportation battle
While I play the air guitar to "Private Eyes."

How I want to feel the asphalt grind and spark beneath my blade
As I barrel through the streets where cars can't go.
And like those mighty ploughmen who have cleared these roads before me
I would sing along to "Say It Isn't So."

I am mighty, I am big, I have traction, force and power
I could wreck your lawn and crush your little mail hutch
But snowplough man, he doesn't. He has sworn his sacred duty.
And, oh, my favourite song is "Out of Touch."

At 2 or 5 or 6 I'm out and ploughing when I'm needed.
The ploughman never sleeps until the snow has stopped its fall.
"Duty calls," I say beneath my breath, my gaze upon the snowstorm
Swirling, flowing like the hair of Darryl Hall.

Children cheer my roaring, though they loathe to see me passing
For it means the roads are cleared and there is school.
The busses now will make it, thanks to me, the mighty ploughman.
Boo-hoo, boo-hoo, boo-hoo, boo-hoo, boo-hoo.

("Ohhh, here she comes … she’s a snow eater …!")

Later I will sit with guys who likewise drive the snowplough
And we'll talk of blade arc, torque and things hydraulic
We'll speak of wind shear, salt and sand and 80s soft-rock hits
Along with John Oates' stache in terms most hyperbolic

You think that I don't know you hate the piles along your driveway?
That barricade of snow that makes you glare when I pass through?
You wish I'd lift my blade along the places that you've shoveled,
Yeah but I can't go for that, no. No can do.

Take note of this, though, citizens, the ploughman has the power
And this news may fill your heart or cause dismay
For I'll track down every one of you who dares to say "the white stuff,"
And I'll "white stuff" you so hard you're stuck 'til May.

And it's spelled "P-L-O-U-G-H," not "P-L-O-and-W."
For it makes no sense that "plow" won't rhyme with "snow"?
There's time to think on things like this while safely tucked inside my cab
And singing "Sara Smiles" as tempests blow.

(Now see? "Snow/blow," that makes sense, but "plow"? No.)

O, I want to be the guy who drives the snowplough through the town.
I long to conquer snowfall, battle drifts all season through.
To the man who grants me access to such bulk of force and metal
I would say to him, "You make-a my dreams come true."

(You-hoo, you, hoo, you-hoo.)