The ballad of Mike Duffy:
In mixing with miscreants, cretins and thieves A once-honourable man was brought to his knees.
The stories abound of good men laid low By the brutal indifference Fortune can show. It raises them up to illustrious light Before casting them into perpetual night. It’s easy to say that the victim’s to blame, When he’s just a pawn in a monstrous game, Brought low, though virtuous, steadfast and true By the scoundrels whose company he’s thrown into.
This is the story of just such a chap Who nibbled the cheese and got caught in the trap. A cheerful young fellow with plain, East-coast roots Dragged down by the Hill and Rockcliffe Park suits. He dared to dream big and aim for a star But hard work and a smile gets you only so far. So he learned by degrees to get in the Game Until Ottawa’s rot led to Mike Duffy’s shame.
Life began for young Mike on the Isle of the spud, His blood red and thick as the P.E.I. mud. His mum fed him tatties and fiddlehead stew And taught him to always keep virtue in view. He learned the rewards of an honest day’s work. He learned not to judge, not to lie, not to shirk. He learned that the size of a man’s heart is what counts. Not the size of his wallet or chequing account.
But Mike grew too large for wee Charlottetown And he hankered to till more fertile ground. The Guardian beat and the radio show Had their charms, but the rookie was bursting to grow. The bright lights and bistros were beckoning West. The big city would put this young colt to the test. Montréal, la belle dame, and then Parliament Hill Were the harbours where Mike hoped to nurture his skill.
In no time at all he landed a job Pressing the flesh with the press gallery mob. “Duff’s got the next round,” the deadbeats would call, And gullible Mike would buy beers for them all. Everyone on the Hill thought Mike was just swell Despite being surrounded by ne’er-do-wells, Lobbyists, senators, call girls and thugs. Power’s addictive and Mike worshipped the drug.
Food, fame and fortune — Mike always craved more And he longed to parade through the Red Chamber door. He nagged Jean Chretien like a broken LP Reminding him what a great ally he’d be. The Duff got his much-longed-for post in the end By endlessly hounding successive PMs. He blubbered the first time he saw the Black Rod For it was Stephen J. Harper who gave him the nod.
But the Senate was naught but a shabby old sty — A barn full of porkers in Savile Row ties. They grunted and rolled in the filth and the mud — And Mike dove right in with a sickening thud. He took the advice of those swine he called friends To pile on the claims and expenses no end. In his Armani suit, just another big toff, Jowl by jowl with the others, his snout in the trough.
“The forms are confusing and the rules unclear” — A shaky excuse, sure, but Mike was sincere. “Ontario’s home, in a technical sense, “But my heart’s in P.E.I. residence. “When I travel I do so on behalf of the Hill, “and hardly at all as a P.M.O. shill. “Every meal I expense is on Senate affairs “I just happen to dine with Bel-Aire millionaires.”
But expenses that never once caused any fuss. Were now a betrayal of Canadians’ trust. The Senate was pressured to take a firm stand. The price of Mike’s sins — a full 90 grand. That’s when the Prime Minister’s flunkies stepped in. The ones you can spot by the sleek dorsal fin. One — Nigel Wright — said he’d cut Mike a cheque, And end this whole dreary slow-motion train wreck.
Mike dealt with the Devil and sealed the deal And doomed himself to a judicial ordeal. In mixing with miscreants, cretins and thieves A once-honourable man was brought to his knees. Just like Lear or Hamlet or Oedipus Rex, No one can predict which man’s turn might be next, To ride Fortune’s wheel to the dizzying summit And then, like a hulking old boulder, to plummet.