New Brunswick — A The Manatee Right to Information request with the provincial government revealed a poem written by Brian Gallant and Victor Boudreau in an attempt to present this year’s budget in a lighthearted way.
At the last minute, government communications officials convinced them to trash it, but The Manatee managed to salvage it for our loyal readers.
‘Twas the night before budget, and all through N.B.
Not a creature was thinking, “These cuts won’t affect me!”
The #Choices were proposed by Vic with some care,
In hopes that NBers, they would not care.
The MLAs were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of toll booths danced in their heads;
And Brian in his ‘kerchief, Melanson in his cap,
Had just settled their brains for what-will-basically-be-a-3-year fiscal nap.
When out on Leg-lawn there arose such a clatter,
They sprang from their chairs to see what was the matter;
Away to the window they flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
Charles LeBlanc on the steps of the building below,
Gave a slurring of words that nobody could know.
When what to their wondering eyes did appear,
But a crew of protesters approaching so near.
Their little old leader so lively and quick,
He came out of nowhere, and it was St. Vic!
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
“Now, tolls! Now, corporate taxes! Now HST hike!
But no cuts to healthcare! Or education! Stop post-secondary strife!
To the top of the north! To the south of the bay!
Now grab your belongings! Let’s all dash away!”
Like trades students with no apprentice here,
When they pack up their bags — Fort Mac is so near;
So up to the airport in taxis they flew
With a car full of stuff — St. Vic was there too.
And then, in a thumping, it was heard on the roof,
A helicopter landing: Brian with his lil’ hair poof.
As the plane of MLAs was turning around,
Down the runway St. Vic Boudreau came with a bound.
He was in fancy fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with dirt and soot;
A bundle of Choices he had staked on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.
His eyes — how they twinkled! His dimples — how merry!
His cheeks were like fiddleheads, his nose a blueberry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And his beardless face was as white as the snow.
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
Low tobacco-taxed smoke encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a nervous grin, and stuttering speech
That shook when he laughed, like a slightly bruised peach.
He was laughing and chuckling, a right jolly old elf,
And I grimaced when I heard him say “We’re going to need help!”;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know I had reason to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
Unveiling tax hikes, then he turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, a peace-out sign he rose.
He sprang to the plane, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew to like an Iranian nuclear missile.
But I heard him and Brian exclaim, as they drove out of sight:
“New Brunswick is screwed, LOL, have a good life!”