Some poetic musings on the justice system

by John Junck

Aug 22, 2007

Henry David Thoreau once observed that “The poet seldom writes as well as the farmer talks.”

He did not elaborate on this opinion, nor did he go on to augur any calamitous consequences should a poet try to farm; or indeed, should a farmer attempt to write poetry.

So I’m left pondering whether I’ve been a mediocre farmer because my natural calling tended to favour the muses, or if I’m an indifferent poet because my future lies inextricably linked to my pasture.

But I am heartened that Robbie Burns was able to merge the two callings, with some success as a social commentator, 220 odd years ago.

And so it has been my fondest reverie that someday I might tread, humbly and at a respectful distance, like a tiny field mouse in the furrow of that Scottish Bard.

Herewith: a couple of rhyming commentaries I’ve written over the years concerning our country’s justice system.

The Ballad of the Canadian Criminal

They’re releasing me tomorrow, it’s jut too good to be true
‘Cause my lawyer tells me now, I’ve got a perfect right to sue.
I’ll sue them for a million, and my lawyer says I’ll win,
‘Cause my rights got violated, by the cops who brought me in.
I sure thought I was a goner, (‘cause they did catch me in the act).
Then my lawyer, very cleverly, advised them of the fact,
That my rights were read in English, which is not my mother tongue.
‘Cause I still recall some French words that I heard when I was young.
So the cops all got a scolding from the judge who heard my case.
And he ordered that my name “From all crime records be erased.”
He apologized profusely, he said “Justice rules the day!
But I figure, what the hell, I’m gonna sue them anyway.
For I’ve got some hefty bills to pay, to people who won’t wait.
But not my lawyer’s bill, (‘cause it got paid for by the State).
I’ve got real expensive habits, and the welfare check I got,
Won’t buy a week’s supply of booze, or three days worth of pot.
But I’m not the sort who’d ask the State to keep me all my life.
(I figure they do well, to keep my children and my wife.)
A grown man, I figure must look after ‘number one.’
And I’ll sure be self-supporting, just as soon’s I find a gun.
‘Cause the cops will just ignore me, as I rob a bank or store.
They’ll figure, “What’s the sense? We had him to dead to rights before.”
“The judge would just release him, so we’ll let him get away.
And hey! We’re at Tim Horton’s and it’s break time, anyway.”
Please don’t think I’m not grateful to this land ‘From Sea to Sea,’
Where the bulk of human rights have been reserved for guys like me.
The ‘word’ about our courts has been relayed from mouth to mouth.
And it’s been a big attraction to my buddies from the South.
It’s from them that I’ve been learning thinks like ‘Dead men tell no tales,’
And I’m on my way right now to buy a big supply of shells.
So I’ll leave you with my story and I’ll end it with a smirk,
At all you suckers out there who are dumb enough to work!

The Hawk

The hawk was sitting in his cage, and brooding, all alone.
For all he moved, he might have been some sculptor’s work in stone.
His feathers were all sleek and grey, except one spot in front.
Where blood stains were mute evidence of his last savage hunt.
The bars were thick and strong around the cage so small and narrow.
Where he’d been locked away because he’d killed a little sparrow.
His savage heart was restless, and he plotted in his brain
The cruelties he’d perpetrate, when he got loose again.
Now, the Jailer Doves had gathered, they were sitting in a tree.
The first Dove said, “He doesn’t look too dangerous to me.”
“I’ve heard he’s changed his diet. He would never kill again.
From hence he’ll dine exclusively on insects, fruits and grain.”
“It seems a shame to keep him here, locked up, instead of free.
I’m sure, by now, he’s paid the debt he owes society.”
So all the Doves decided to release the hawk once more.
They stood and wished him “Godspeed!” as they opened wide the door.
They all watched in admiration as the hawk soared to the sky.
Thinking, “What a lovely story for the children bye-and-bye.”
And I thought . . . how Mrs. Jessop . . . and how Mrs. Stevenson,
WOULD GIVE THE WORLD, if she could tell HER daughter and HER son.