Occasionally, which, unfortunately, means right here and now, this column lapses into verse
When Jimmie and Steven killed off the one cent
I thought that a nuisance was stopped
But after a while, I wiped off my smile
As the penny eventually dropped
They’d given no thought to the mess they’d create
Those so called wise men at the helm
Cos they’ve scrapped much more from the language
Than they have from the coin of the realm
Lets suppose I am socking my money away
Must the old school advice now be spurned?
What do I do if it’s no longer true
That a penny saved is a penny earned?
Did they mean that we spend with abandon?
Is the limit now up in the skies?
How can we pound foolish at all
If we can't be penny wise?
But if I were to offer up my point of view
It would be with a tone of chagrin
How will I know when I’ve said just enough
When I can't get my two cents worth in?
And if you would not share your insights with me
What price would now have it bought?
I’ll no longer be able to offer to pay
A penny for your thoughts
If I were the Pope or some fancy archbishiop
My conscience would tinkle some bell
Cos if there’s no more pennies from heaven
Perhaps there's no heaven as well
I wont fill my loafers with loonies or toonies
Until you back off and relent
And don't ask me to give you nickels or dimes
When you wont let me give one red cent
So Jimmie and Steven, please reconsider
Give the language a well earned relief
It’s not weak nor improper to turn back to copper
- Why not take the hint, and go tell the mint
- I know Dief would do it, so don’t you eschew it
- We’re not talking big bucks, it's for all us Canucks
And bring back that tan maple leaf.
Some readers seem intent on nullifying the authority of David Simmonds. The critics are so intense; Simmonds is cast as more scoundrel than scamp. He is, in fact, a Canadian writer of much wit and wisdom. Simmonds writes strong prose, not infrequently laced with savage humour. He dissects, in a cheeky way, what some think sacrosanct. His wit refuses to allow the absurdities of life to move along, nicely, without comment. What Simmonds writes frightens some readers. He doesn't court the ineffectual. Those he scares off are the same ones that will not understand his writing. Satire is not for sissies. The wit of David Simmonds skewers societal vanities, the self-important and their follies as well as the madness of tyrants. He never targets the outcasts or the marginalised; when he goes for a jugular, its blood is blue. David Simmonds, by nurture, is a lawyer. By nature, he is a perceptive writer, with a gimlet eye, a superb folk singer, lyricist and composer. He believes quirkiness is universal; this is his focus and the base of his creativity. "If my humour hurts," says Simmonds,"it's after the stiletto comes out." He's an urban satirist on par with Mike Barnacle, the late Jimmy Breslin and Mike Rokyo and, increasingly, Dorothy Parker. He writes from and often about the village of Wellington, Ontario. Simmonds also writes for the Wellington "Times," in Wellington, Ontario.
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