‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the House,
The cobwebs had gathered like ticks on a grouse.
The green chairs sat empty, the gallery, too;
Not a creature was stirring, not even a shrew.
The members were off on a long winter’s pause,
Not likely to end until Windsor Lake thaws.
Their gifts were all bought, though in lesser amounts
Than the days before auditors checked their accounts.
Meanwhile, at the homestead of Ms. Dunderdale
Where all lay enveloped in deep slumber’s veil,
The premier was dreaming of being a queen
In a kingdom where hydro and oil reigned supreme.
When out in the yard there arose such a din
She thought maybe Igor had come back again.
She ran to the back door and out on the deck
And with a great gasp, she cried out, “What the heck?”
A gale was a-blowin', but not from the east,
It came from the rotor atop a great beast.
Her eyes they grew wide as she shivered and shook,
For there on the ground sat a brand new Chinook.
Through harsh glare of lights, she could make out a figure
And as it came closer, her eyes grew much bigger.
The black boots, the medals, all dressed up so slick,
There was no mistaking it was General Rick.
“Good evening,” said Canada’s former top soldier;
He reached out and rested a hand on her shoulder.
“I’m sorry to scare you, no need for alarm.
I’m here on a mission, I mean you no harm.”
The premier looked warily at the big chopper,
Then back at the general, done up prim and proper.
“What is so important that it couldn’t wait?
It’s Christmas Eve, sir, and the hour is late.”
“I want to be Tory boss,” came the retort.
“There’s just no one else of the leadership sort.
Not Darin, not Kevin, not Steve Kent or Joan,
And now that he’s backed out, not even Jerome.”
The premier looked addled, then let out a laugh.
“I’m sorry, my friend, but you’ve made a big gaffe.
The leadership hopefuls are doubtful, it’s true;
But why do you think people would vote for you?”
The general looked down for a moment and sighed,
Then looked up again with his eyes opened wide
“Ma’am, no offence, but you haven’t a clue;
I don’t need the voters. I’m staging a coup!”
Peter Jackson is The Telegram’s editorial page editor. He can be contacted by email at firstname.lastname@example.org.