‘Twas the week after Christmas, and all through the town,
There were still calls – loud as ever – for building heights to come down;
We need space for painters, our singers – cafés!
But it shan’t block our views, or the sun’s glorious rays;
“But it worked fine in White Rock,” came one quiet reply;
“No one minded at all when we built to the sky;
“Build up, not across, and collect all that tax;
It will – for a moment – divert from moving the tracks.”
But calm will last but a moment, and soon will appear,
protesters aplenty, screaming “No railway here!;
It can’t be on the beach, or along the old route,”
But the cost – a few hundred mill – will render everything moot.
White Rock’s mayor perseveres, says “the location’s all wrong,”
“Whatever,” says Surrey. “It was your idea all along.”
So with that, attention turns to the new fallen snow; or any other Peninsula problem, from years long ago;
“No dogs on the beach! – or anywhere near!
“Want to park? Well pay up – revenue’s down again, dear.”
Or if parking or pets are not your cup of tea,
We’ll talk about coal trains or development fees;
“It’s fugitive coal!” rises up from go-getters,
Or at least from the few who choose to write letters.
And so residents were tucked away snug in their beds;
Dreaming of tearing town charters to shreds;
But then – from the street – a noise caused them to bristle,
A blueberry cannon, or perhaps a train whistle?
Alas, it was neither of those subjects of hate,
But a man – dressed in red – returning a week late;
He exclaimed,“enough with all the complaining and fighting;
Repeated calls for attention and riot-inciting.”
“Don’t forget Christmas,” he said, with a smile,
“Let that peace and goodwill soak in for awhile;
“Don’t bicker with neighbours, don’t argue or fight,
“You live in a heck of a city, regardless of heights.”
