Monthly Archives: December 2013

A-wassailing, ready or not

Warren Clements writes (Dec. 28):
I was invited to rewrite a few Christmas carols for the Dec. 24 editorial page of The Globe and Mail. Here they are, with a couple of extras (Bowie, twerking) that didn’t fit into the space. Hope you enjoy them.
Oh come, get your Ford fill,
Boorish and exultant.
Comfy, get co-omfy
And watch his defence.
All’s super-duper
’Xcept that drunken stu-upor.
Oh, crumbling lies before him,
A crack in his decorum.
“How dare you take my quo-orum?”
Cri-ies the Ford.
Oh come, it’s a Ford fest.
Chortle and take umbrage.
Comedy, tragedy –
The line is so fine.
Mayor of Toronto,
Spotting new foes da-aily.
“Oh come, let us appall them.
And then we’ll robo-call them.
If they ask questions, stall them,”
Cri-ies the Ford.

I saw three billion bucks float off
On Harper’s watch, on Harper’s watch,
And no one knows just where they went,
So says the Auditor-Gen’ral.
Though earmarked for sec-ur-i-ty,
When came the dawn, the cash was gone.
Three billion bucks went “poof !” – tough luck.
Next question, Auditor-Gen’ral.

The first Nobel
For Canada’s lit
Went to Alice Munro for
The short tales she’s writ –
A field in which
She’s proven a pro.
There is no secret pla-ace
Her pen will not go.
Nobel, Nobel, Nobel, Nobel.
Fire up the printing press. Watch her books sell.

Docked in space with howls of Bowie,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Hadfield put on quite a show free.
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Higher than the holiest cleric.
Fa la la, la la la, la la la.
Space, though, is not atmospheric.
Fa la la la la, la la la la.

We three souls all senators are,
Battling moves to boot us afar.
Harper named us. Now he’s blamed us.
Feathers he brings, and tar.
Oh, oh…
Claimed expenses. Chits we banked.
Senate colleagues had us yanked.
What we’ve got here
Showed there’s rot here.
Surely we three should be thanked.

Whose child is this who leads the Grits,
Whose hair is wild and wa-avier?
Once on the ropes, the party hopes
That Justin is its saviour.
This, this is youth with style,
A blankish slate with charming smile.
Grits pray his feet aren’t clay,
And please don’t say, “Just watch me.”

Kathleen Wynne says let’s look past
All the feats of Dalton.
Never mind the sins amassed,
Wounds to rub more salt in.
Sure, when we killed gas-fired plants,
Spent a needless billion.
But no need to look askance.
Stopped short of a zi-illion.

In its twelfth fray, the Commons
Was truly sad to see:
Leaden responses,
Ten-dentious language,
Non-answers given,
Ate all the time up,
Sedentary clappers
Sicced on the public –
Fie, glib harangues.
Forestalling words,
True te-di-um,
From the front bench, all response-free.

Silent knight
Nigel Wright
Held his tongue
Out of sight.
Round him, versions,
Mysteries flew.
People wonder just
What Harper knew.
Piece by harrowing pi-iece.
Gleaning the truth piece by piece.

“Heck,” the harried users swear,
“We can’t get Obamacare.
Can’t get access to the site,
Though we tried for half the night.”
Programs falter, systems fa-ail.
Hear the angry critics rail.
“Health insurance? Work this slack
Could bring on a heart attack.
Was this mess bought off the shelf?
Programmer, please heal thyself.”

Twerking – when did this break out?
Feast on Miley Cyrus.
Tongue extended, wearing nowt,
Clearly she’s no prioress.
Backing into Robin Thicke,
Smoking up in Europe.
And – a rather public trick –
Wrecking ball lifts he-er up.

O little coin of yesteryear,
How empty lies the till.
The humble cent is gone. It went
To join the dollar bill.
The two cents’ worth we offered,
The penny for our thoughts,
In use no more. Yet in our drawer
We still have lots and lots.

Away with the mailbox.
No room for a bill.
As Canada Post drops
Its door-to-door drill.
The postman is hist’ry.
The stops at the door
Will vanish, requiring
A thousand steps more.
The fit and the healthy,
The halt and the lame,
By Canada Post will
Be treated the same.
We won’t come to you, Mac.
You must come to us.
They offer a minus
And call it a plus.

Robbo, the red-faced Ford bro,
Had a very thinnish skin.
All those in Ford’s Toronto
Walked on eggs with Rob and kin.
Once in the highest office,
He was rather loath to budge.
Didn’t play well with others
And he held a fearsome grudge.
Then one fall, the roof caved in.
Other counc’llors cried:
“Robbo, you’ve behaved so ill,
All your perks we plan to kill.”
Oh, how the Ford bros ranted
As the votes against them came.
Robbo, the red-faced Ford bro,
Has to play a reined-in game.