By

 

James Bredin

 

This is a poem to show that there’s no need to get excited,

But we should try to remember ways to stay united,

Before the incoming immigrants expand and explode,

We could be a small minority somewhere down the road.

 

Of course you think I’m kidding because this couldn’t be,

As you look around at the numbers and you tend to disagree,

Your left wing politician just said everything was great,

Without referendums or recall so there’s no need for debate.

 

Our abortions and birth control pills have improved our lives,

Compared to four fertile burka-wearing Muslim wives,

Though this is not about bigamy but about the babies they make,

A few million babies called Mohamed for the prophet’s sake.

 

An invasion by immigration should not disturb your slumber?

It’s called demographics but there’s no need to think numbers,

Though their high birth rate will eventually bring catastrophic change,

More mosques and Byzantine minarets with a sound that is strange.

 

And nothing can be rearranged because of Trudeau’s Charter,

Rights for “EVERYONE” including refugees suicide martyrs,

As opportunistic politicians pitch for immigrant vote,

Pretending it’s their multicultural agenda they promote.

 

Locked in the politically correct storm of sensitivities,

Serious concessions for their curious activities,

Appointed appeasers have long been making these decisions,

As we are herded into the unknown with great precision.

 

Has our multicultural accommodation run amok?

Should we speak up at the United Nations or just shut up?

Should I thicken up my beard and keep my head down?

Or go up to the mosque and maybe just walk around?

 

 

Saturday, December 16, 2006

 

 

 

By

 

James Bredin

 

 

Incoming refugee welfare unwed mothers by the score,

Babies without fathers foretell future difficulties galore,

Multicultural generous, sensitive, tolerant but weak,

Political magnanimity mercifully managed and meek.

 

High minded pompous politically correct but naïve,

Aids programs for refugee who deceive but we believe,

All claiming Charter Rights and nothing can be changed,

Pompously pretending that Canadian elites are not deranged.

 

We can’t come to any harm because we’re so good,

Demographics of four wives with four babies each misunderstood,

An invasion by immigration so peaceful and quiet,

High birthrate minorities in Paris frequently riot.

 

Ethnic glad-handing where referendums not allowed,

No recall for politicians who look down from a cloud,

Eventually the imams will tell our elites what is right,

Too late by then as we look at each other in fright.

 

Friday, December 15, 2006

 

 

Ontario Politicians’ Pay Raise

By

James Bredin

Ontario politicians decided to double their pay,
They did it on a whim; these legislators who wont go away,
And the people looked on helplessly as the politicians laughed,
No referendums, recall, forthcoming election; so no shaft,

Status quo has somehow been long lost in the past,
Crooked politicians doubled their pay, lied and the dye was cast,
As they taxed and spent and increased their pay every week,
Driven in limousines – their latest elitist technique.

The helpless citizens can’t change this organization,
To help control politicians in this fearful frustration,
Why did honest Mike Harris have to leave all in doubt?
Can someone shake the tree just to see what falls out?

Or could we get referendums or recall or any control?
Because our politicians should be in prison or on parole,
And we the people should be the ones who call the shots,
Why should we feel that we are being tied in knots?

Thursday, December 14, 2006

 

 

 

 

We cut turf at Lisycasey

by

James Bredin

We cut and foot turf at Lisycasey when I was a boy,
Wore heavy woolen sweaters and short pants of corduroy,
We left the turf soft and wet in the sun to get hard as a rock,
Came back a week later and foot it up in a circular block,
To catch additional wind and dry and harden even more,
Never had or wore gloves and our hands were always quite sore.

We hitched a ride in a lorry going out the Kilrush Road,
And then walked the winding bog road for miles with our load,
We used a heavy spade with one side called a "shlawn" by the Gaels,
Backbreaking work but we needed turf to stay warm and prevail,
Because in those rough war times coal could not be had or bought,
Not for heating houses but ironworks where a war was being fought.

The bog was a swampy quiet place with no trees and few birds,
Fewer people far away working wearily alone without words,
But the quiet tranquility of the bog was sometimes broken,
By flying Constilations heading out for the Atlantic Ocean,
From Rinanna to Gander they had enough fuel for one hop,
Then on to New York to their final destination stop.

And now I read the bog and all that world has completely changed,
New houses, improved economy and everything rearranged,
And young people from Ennis now live and commute back and forth,
Where I cut turf, boiled the billycan and had a turf fort,
And at the end of the day we hitched a ride back into town,
Tired and weary though I seldom if ever wore a frown.

 

Dec 12^th, 2006

 

 

 

 

by

James Bredin

Hurry up McGillacuddy, you’ll soon be on your way.
No more you’ll hunt the pheasants with a shotgun by the bay,
No more you’ll watch the farmers cutting turf down by the bogs,
Or sheep up on the mountains being herded by the dogs.

You’ll seldom hear the pipes again or watch the colleens dance.
You’ll join the long tradition; no there’s not a single chance,
That there’s work for you in Ireland; the economy is dead.
It’s nineteen fifty four my boy; too many mouths to be fed

Hurry up McGillacuddy show them that you’re keen,
Get on that dock and board that ship you’re almost seventeen.
Don’t show them that your heart is broke or that you want to cry,
You’re proud to be an Irishman so hold your head up high.

This ship is packed with emigrants from England, Scotland, Wales.
They’re singing blimey British songs and telling taller tales.
They say you’ve got a brogue my friend and that you’re young and green,
Your patriotic pride is hurt when you’re almost seventeen.

Hurry up McGillacuddy you’re a stranger on your own.
The loneliness you’ve come to know hurts right down to the bone.
You’ll never fish the Fergus or walk Rinanna hunting hare.
These strangers here don’t know your world nor do they even care.

That place you knew just the other day; it’s gone forever now.
Was it all just an illusion -- another world somehow?
Where are those voices that you heard -- the choir in the church?
When you had all the answers and no god-forsaken search.

Hurry up McGillacuddy forget all you have done.
Canadian Immigration waits at Pier twenty-one.
They’ll process you in a minute flat and send you on your way.
You’re one of a thousand immigrants came to Halifax today.

 

Dec 12^th, 2006