A photo of the silhouette of Parliament Hill.
A photo of the silhouette of Parliament Hill. Credit: Robbie Palmer / Unsplash Credit: Robbie Palmer / Unsplash

A very caring council served the city of Lenore
With hearts that ached for each citizen, young and old, rich and poor
They’d heed at length, with bowed head, your tales of woe, wound, and gore
Then tell you with a calming hand why you should vote for them some more

The city sat in lands of plenty, guarded by a guarantor
Imparted council wisdom setting these conditions down as lore
“The gods have blessed us,” they would cry, “with bounty, borders, might, and more!”
And all they asked was it be taken from those who lived there before

“What of the winds,” the crowds would fret, “bringing heat and rains like none before?”
“Worry not,” the council spoke, “of things beyond such lives as yours.
It is we who set the course, and the world which will conform.
It’s best to pay it all no mind when there isn’t much you can afford.”

“What of the letters we receive, of weapons forged within our shores?
We’re told that children’s blood is spilled by blades and arrows which were, here, born.”
“Do not be troubled by the wails of the incessantly forlorn.
What is it that they propose, other than to mope and mourn?”

“We hear reports,” the public called, “of famine, illness, even war,

Afflicted on a thousand million innocents, and maybe more.”
“Oh yes,” the council said, “at this our very hearts are torn,
But to our own prosperity’s the lone allegiance we have sworn.”

For this very caring council, no single duty felt a bore
And though, of course, they were all rich, their hearts did so ache for the poor
Ached so much indeed, they said “for you whom living is a chore,
An end to all your pain and thirst awaits you through that darkened door.”

The crowds would then disperse, encouraged by a blaring horn
Ushered back to toil-for-wage beneath the landowners and lords
The council would thus retreat, back to their velvet-laden dorms
Muttering at the foul audacity of the questioners with scorn

And so the days would go, and nights turn over into morn
Sun splashing city walls upon which guard towers adorn
The waters rose, the air thickened – tomorrow’s problems to be sure
For the very caring council of the city of Lenore

Chuka Ejeckam Photo (1)

Chuka Ejeckam

Chuka Ejeckam is a writer and policy researcher based in Toronto. The son of Igbo immigrants to Canada, Chuka grew up in Winnipeg, Manitoba. His work focuses on inequity and inequality, drug policy, structural...