10:59:43 pm on
Monday 10 Aug 2020

In Praise of Dr Trump
David Simmonds

Good morning Dr. Trump I won’t shake hands

Your practice must involve some great demands

Your every word just moves us and inspires us 

And will rid us of this new corona virus

 

You said you had a feel about a drug 

I’ll take it ‘cause you’re giving it a plug 

Though it makes the experts seem a little grouchy 

I’ll stick with you not doctors Birx and Fauci 


I’ll follow your advice through thick and thin 


I’ll even take hy-droxy-chloro-quine

“First do no harm” the doctor’s oath may state

But “what’s to lose” - I’ll risk it and feel great

 

I’ll drink up all the wisdom that you preach


And swallow down a quarter cup of bleach

You’re the one who always knows what’s best 

Go ahead and stick a light bulb in my chest

 

It’s not as bad as so-called experts say

And anyway you’re tested every day

I believe you when you say it’s going away

And a vaccine will be here by Christmas Day

 

You didn’t go in sissy quarantine 

Though folks around you failed to test all clean

And now the press is taking you to task 


For showing up for work without a mask.

 

The virus is a plot by Chairman Xi

To undermine our precious liberty

And fighting off this wretched Chinese germ 


Might wreck your chances for a second term

 

‘Back to work’ is what we want in news 

It’s our right to get infected if we choose

One hundred thousand dead’s the price we’ll pay 


For living in the good old U.S.A.

 

Barak Obama says you’ve failed to lead


He wasn’t even born here take no heed

But there’s something that we all deserve to see

And that’s a copy of your medical degree.

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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