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Mayor Rob Ford Ford, left, receives candy canes from a man dressed as Santa Claus, outside of Ford's office at City Hall in Toronto.(Peter Power/The Globe and Mail) (Peter Power/The Globe and Mail)
Mayor Rob Ford Ford, left, receives candy canes from a man dressed as Santa Claus, outside of Ford's office at City Hall in Toronto.(Peter Power/The Globe and Mail) (Peter Power/The Globe and Mail)

Globe editorial

A-wassailing, ready or not Add to ...

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 robocall 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.

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.

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,

Pre-scripted,

True te-di-um,

And from Harper, all response-free.

The first Nobel

For Canada’s lit

Went to Alice Munro for

The short tales she’s writ –

A field in which

She has 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.

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.

Gle-ean the truth piece by piece.

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.

Away with the mailbox.

No room for a bill.

As Canada Post drops

Its door-to-door drill.

“You’ll be a lot fitter

If you walk to us.”

They offer a minus

And call it a plus.

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.

The Kenney and the Flah’rty

Are very tightly bound.

When Kenney knocks Toronto’s mayor

Jim makes a nasty sound.

“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 fail.

Hear the angry critics rail.

“Health insurance? Work this slack

Could bring on a heart attack.

Was this mess bought off the shelf?

Pray, O coder, heal thyself.”

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.

Warren Clements

 

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