Eh, harken up, ya sorry slab o’ prairie snow, Minne-so-tau, Yer state’s so bland it makes plain oatmeal look like gumbo, eh, boo. You call yerself “North”? Buddy, yer just Manitoba’s gay cousin, Ten thousand lakes—mostly mosquito swamps where the walleye go huntin’. Vikings? Four Super Bowl losses an’ still rockin’ purple like a bruise, Twins choke in October like a Lutheran swallowin’ his first booze. Timberwolves? Eternal lottery bridesmaids, forever blue-balled, Wild skate pretty till the playoffs hit—then fold like a cheap accordion, by god. You brag “Minnesota Nice” with that creepy Stepford grin, While half o’ Minneapolis smells like a Mogadishu fish market again. You flew in more Somalis than the UN on a bad day, Now Cedar-Riverside’s got more hijabs than a Kabul runway. Ilhan’s yellin’ “death to America” while cashin’ yer taxpayer checks, An’ yer governor kneels for BLM while the city burns—good luck with that, eh, wrecks. Prince bolted soon as he could, even he couldn’t stand the cold fish vibe, Left ya with Garrison Keillor dronin’ stories ‘bout nothin’—guy’s barely alive. Yer flag looks like a third-grader drew it after eatin’ too much tater-tot hotdish, An’ yer biggest export is passive-aggressive “ope, sorry” with a side o’ small-dish. So keep yer Mall o’ America, yer Mayo, yer Spam in a can, Yer state’s a giant cul-de-sac where real culture goes to get banned. Glory to Jesus Christ, eh—now toddle on back to yer lutefisk-scented hell, Minnesota’s a cautionary tale the good Lord forgot to tell. Ope, sorry—not sorry, b’ys. Ya just got roasted proper, dontcha know.