An Ode to Robert Bruce (Rob) Ford, Esquire, on the Occasion of Pride Week 2011
I share my poor dwelling with a wicked old sprite;
A sprite whose spirit leans largely to right.
And on those droll days when good people unite,
The wicked old sprite stays out of their sight.
I think it was Nash, not the old one but new,
The one for whom e would quite simply not do,
I think it was he, from that York always New,
That said it best, that said it quite true:
In Toronto there lived a boy.
He wasn’t anybody’s joy.
Although his name was Jabez Dawes,
His character was full of flaws.
And although Jabez, with his gut so puh-lump
Kissed little babies when he noticed a slump,
He never was so quick to skedaddle
As when people of colours showed up with a paddle.
If that little fat sprite truly is Jabez Dawes,
Then Père Noël is my name, I’m a kitty with claws.
And when winter’s sun shines on that sprite that likes spin,
From behind that plump face an ogre’s will grin.
But fear not, good folk, ’tis no ogre we fear,
Look closer, smell careful, ’tis but stale reek of beer.
I sympathize fully, last year you were rash,
Four years will soon pass, then remember Og Nash:
From grimy feet to grimy locks,
Jabez became a Jack-in-the-box,
An ugly toy with springs unsprung,
Forever sticking out his tongue.
The neighbors heard his mournful squeal;
They searched for him, but not with zeal.
No trace was found of Jabez Dawes,
Which led to thunderous applause,
And people drank a loving cup
And went and hung their stockings up.
