‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the town,
Not a Councillor was stirring, from the suburbs on down;
The slogans were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes an election soon would be there;

Voters were nestled all snug in their beds,
But visions of glory filled Councillors’ heads:
“Christmas? Who cares? For your votes I do plead!
The election must come! It’s the mayor’s chair that I need!”

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
People sprang from their beds to see what was the matter;
Opening the window they said “Holy shit, man!
Outside my house: it’s candidate Whitman!”

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,
Gave the lustre of change to the candidate below;
Once blocked tweets magically appeared,
“Positivity for all!” he cried with good cheer;

This little bold candidate, so wily and quick,
Hoped they’d forget his past with a flick;
More rapid than eagles his misdeeds amassed,
Retweeting racists, offering insults most crass.

“Now, VOTERS! now, MEDIA! now, listen will you?
I make poor choices, quite out of the blue!
But how else to vote on election day?
Can you live in a city with a mayor named Waye?”

As dry leaves that before the Nor’easter fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So back to Twitter, Whitman he flew,
With a mouth full of words, and promises too.

And then, in a twinkling, the days they did pass,
2020 was going by in a flash;
As voting day closed, the campaign ran its track,
He bounded from Hubbards to Sheet Harbour and back.

He always wore a fun tie, to show he’s a good sort,
Though his rep was tarnished his campaign didn’t abort;
A bundle of promises he flung about fast,
Distracting voters from his… troublesome past.

His eyes—how they twinkled! His tweets were so merry!
He loves this city, like a big juicy cherry!
His droll little mouth made loud pleasing sounds,
Any word of criticism, a torrent to drown.

The mayoral dream held tight in his teeth,
Ambition encircled his head like a wreath;
His behaviour and judgement had been rather smelly,
But now Whitman was sweet, like a bowlful of jelly.

He cycled and prayed, sprayed positivity around,
No time for the haters, their gloom to confound;
Yet doubts rattled around in his head,
To lose this election would fill him with dread;

He spoke not a fear, but campaigned on and on,
“I’m positive and nice,” was his endless song;
But he’d aimed at Province House a time in the past,
When voters unmoved, gave his hopes a cruel blast.

He sprang to the polls, with a nervous dog whistle,
He waited for results, sharp as a thistle;
And they heard him exclaim, as democracy did its work,
I’VE BEEN GOOD FOR SIX MONTHS, MAKE ME MAYOR,
YOU JERKS!

Halifax Magazine