"The Shooting of Stephen Harper"
(with apologies to Robert Service)
A bunch of the Tories were whooping it up in the Parliamentary saloon;
The polls were looking real pretty with an election expected quite soon;
Back of the bar, in a solo game, sat Stephen the head of the crew,
Discussing his luck with his new-found friend, the ex-PM known as Mulroo.
When in from the night, and out of the cold, and into the din and glare,
There stumbled a prison-bound German, all outraged and loaded for bear.
He looked like a man with a hidden agenda, his integrity visibly weak,
An affidavit he tossed on the bar, and demanded a moment to speak.
There was none who trusted the German’s face, his aura all gloomy and black;
But we gave him a listen, and the last to hear was Stephen the head of the pack.
There’s men that somehow just grip your eyes, and hold them hard like a spell;
And such was he, and he looked to me like a man who had lived in hell;
With a face far from fair, and the icy stare of a dog whose day had come,
He lifted his document and started to read the charges out one by one.
Then I got to figgering who he was, and wondering about all the signs,
And I turned my head and he slowly said "My name, boys, is Schreiber, Karlheinz."
His eyes went floating round the room, and he seemed in a kind of a daze,
Till at last he saw his old friend Mulroo in the path of his wandering gaze.
He sidled up to his longtime pal and held out his hand for to shake,
Mulroo turned away and quickly did say "I’ve never been on the take."
But the German insisted and still persisted and claimed that he’d given a lot,
"Three hundred thousand I gave him," said Karl, "And he still claims he never got caught."
And then Mr. Schreiber addressed Stephen Harper and asked him point blank and outright,
"Did you get the short letter I sent you last spring? How come it ain’t seen the light?"
And Harper he shook, and a glance at Mulroo took before he started to whine,
"I don’t know what you’re talking about and this guy’s no friend of mine."
Were you ever out in the wilderness, with not enough seats to go round,
And no matter what you offered, a majority just couldn’t be found,
And although you might try, to be less right and avoid looking grim-faced and dour,
You can’t seem to win even without sin, clean mad for political power.
It was winter, you see, and Harper, well he was hoping to win in the spring,
But this Schreiber guy even if he did lie, was clearly on to something;
The folks in the bar from away and far had heard all this stuff before,
They trusted Mulroo no more than you do and less than any old whore.
So Stephen he knew that if victory was due, he had to cut loose from his friend,
For if the voters got wind of his nexus to sin, his chances were then at an end.
Then I ducked my head and the lights went out, and the pols all fought wildly like cats;
A nation yawned and the lights went up, but we were left with the same old rats.
Stood on his head, and left for half-dead, was Stephen who now did lament,
His longed for correction and springtime election were gone in that one crazy moment.
There are the simple facts of the case, and I guess I ought to know.
They say that Harper was crazed with desire and I’m not denying it’s so.
I’m not so wise as the political guys, but I swear by all holy signs,
The guy that screwed him and stole his election was the German named Schreiber, Karlheinz.