Two Days Left
David Simmonds

Just two days till Christmas

In the place where folks are told

It's the coolest spot when the weather's hot

And the hottest when it's cold

Excited kids are cautioned

Be good for goodness' sake

Or you'll finish out your childhood

In Wellington on the Lake

But they're on their best behaviour

Because they know when Santa's stuck

He entrusts his key deliveries

To a yellow hardware truck

Each Wednesday it's a cetainty

The truck will reappear

And today's its final visit

Till that best day of the year

Staffers pace the pavement

Restrain the swelling crowd

They've set out orange pylons

And the street's been freshly plowed

Then someone yells "I see it!"

And the yellow truck pullls in

The crowd breaks out in wild applause

And the staff relax and grin

Meanwhile only doors away

The Times has hit the street

To shouts of 'hallelujah

My life is now complete'

The truck is slowly emptied

Folks jostle for a look

Did he bring that saw for grandma?

Has he got dad's three inch hook?

There's roofing nails for sister

Some duct tape for my mum

A pitchfork for my cousins

But I'm the one who's glum

No trace of licorice allsorts

Head office dropped the ball

No boxes on the store shelves

In the warehouse - none at all

The shortage is an outrage

No ifs or ands or buts

But I suck it up and purchase

A tin of roasted nuts

And I offer a suggestion

For a novel retail plan

Why not chocolate covered drillbits

Or screws in marzipan?

As the door is slameed behind me,

My thinking turns more clear

And I begin to contemplate

My wishes for next year

An arena and new welcome signs

Will surely come to pass

But what I wissh for most of all

Is a place to pump some gas

So I call up Peter Mertens

Our man at city hall

And he says, while he's not certain

It just may come by fall

So let's celebrate in confidence

What's wished for will unfold

In the coolest spot when the weather's hot

And the hottest when it's cold.

Some readers seem intent on nullifying the authority of David Simmonds. The critics are so intense; Simmonds is cast as more scoundrel than scamp. He is, in fact, a Canadian writer of much wit and wisdom. Simmonds writes strong prose, not infrequently laced with savage humour. He dissects, in a cheeky way, what some think sacrosanct. His wit refuses to allow the absurdities of life to move along, nicely, without comment. What Simmonds writes frightens some readers. He doesn't court the ineffectual. Those he scares off are the same ones that will not understand his writing. Satire is not for sissies. The wit of David Simmonds skewers societal vanities, the self-important and their follies as well as the madness of tyrants. He never targets the outcasts or the marginalised; when he goes for a jugular, its blood is blue. David Simmonds, by nurture, is a lawyer. By nature, he is a perceptive writer, with a gimlet eye, a superb folk singer, lyricist and composer. He believes quirkiness is universal; this is his focus and the base of his creativity. "If my humour hurts," says Simmonds,"it's after the stiletto comes out." He's an urban satirist on par with Pete Hamill and Mike Barnacle; the late Jimmy Breslin and Mike Rokyo and, increasingly, Dorothy Parker. He writes from and often about the village of Wellington, Ontario. Simmonds also writes for the Wellington "Times," in Wellington, Ontario.

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