There are strange things done in elections won

By the folks who moil for votes;

The backroom trails have their secret tales

That would make the cops take notes;

Parliament’s bleak lights have seen queer sights,

But the queerest they ever did see

Was that time police said all this must cease

And indicted Mike Duffy. 

Mike’s just a guy who’s from PEI, where the fair spud blooms and blows.

Why he left his home in the East to roam ’round the Hill, God only knows.

He was on the beat, but a Senate seat seemed to hold him like a spell;

Though he’d often say in his homely way that his current job was swell.

Then one happy day he was on his way to pursue a trail of clues,

When the call came through. They said Mike it’s you for the Upper House we choose.

If we hold our nose, and our eyes we close, then we cannot smell or see,

What your vouchers say, when you’re on your way, to support our great party.

From that very night, ‘cuz he had the right, the expense claims they did flow,

And when Mike was fed, and the hotel bed was cushy soft and low,

Then he signed the chit, and laughed at it: “I’ll cash in this trip, I guess;

And whatever I say, I’m sure that they won’t impose a stringent test.”

Well, he seemed so sure that they didn’t demur; so he said with a sort of smile:

“It’s pretty bold, but from what I’m told, though I’ve been away a while.

Still it can be said — my face won’t turn red – PEI my home remains;

So you folks should pay, based on what I say, all my little housing claims.”

Now a pol’s cash need is a thing to heed, so they swore they would not fail;

And they partied down in old Ottawa town, and swallowed his housing tale.

For he traveled far, as a party star, with his home in PEI;

Earning every plaudit till a Senate audit targeted that lovely guy.

And then Nigel Wright just to make it right wrote a cheque for 90 Gs,

Duffy claims he said he was in the red, but don’t give it oh no please;

But they said you must or you bite the dust, so he took it with a tear,

Saying you promised true, and it’s up to you: make my problems disappear.

An expense claim made is a debt unpaid, at least once you get found out.

In the days to come, though their lips were numb, they could see the PM pout.

In the long, long night, by the neon light, the reporters, round in a ring,

Endured denial waiting for the trial where Mike Duffy might well sing.

And day by day all the flaks could say was the PM did not know;

And on it went, though the spin was spent and the talking points ran low;

Brazeau and Wallin were tossed out, no stallin’, PMO would not give in;

And mud they’d fling at the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till we reached the day when a judge did say, be seated in my court;

It was jammed with press, drooling at the mess, hoping it all would be short.

‘Cuz to sit and sit, hearing lawyers’ wit, would leave brains and buttocks numb;

Until “Here,” they’d say, with intense dismay, “we must sit till Kingdom Come.”

Some gum they chewed while the trial they viewed, or the ceiling of the room;

While the lawyers droned, about who was phoned, and who had emailed whom;

The tweets soon soared, though the press was bored — such a show you don’t want to see;

While each Tory soul wished to dig a hole, and then stuff in Mike Duffy.

Now the Senate rules were composed by fools who just didn’t want to know;

Though the public scowled, and the press corps howled, for inside a cheery glow,

Lit the cozy seats, where for party feats, the insiders sure got by;

Living here and there, travelling by air, and yet no one asked them why.

I do not know how long it will go before we get the facts;

Will we then cry out and all jump about at Mike and his colleagues’ acts?

Or – I truly dread – when it’s all been said, will nobody take the blame?

Will Mike’s goose get cooked, no one else get hooked, in this grisly PR game?

Meanwhile there sits Mike, and he doesn’t like being inside the courtroom door;

And he wears a frown you can see ‘cross town, for he surely can’t ignore

That he’s stuck in there, forced to sit and stare, while his whole career gets chilled —

Since he left – oh why? – his home in PEI, it’s the first time he’s been grilled.

There are strange things done in elections won

By the folks who moil for votes;

The backroom trails have their secret tales

That would make the cops take notes;

Parliament’s bleak lights have seen queer sights,

But the queerest they ever did see

Was that time police said all this must cease

And indicted Mike Duffy. 

~

John Robson, commentator-at-large with News Talk Radio 580 CFRA in Ottawa, journalist and documentary filmmaker, is also an Invited Professor at the University of Ottawa.