There are only 21 days left. The Prime Minister will decide the future of the NL oil industry, our economic future.
The noise gets louder.
Is it Andrew? Has he returned from Ottawa? The decision on Bay du Nord?
No, its NOIA changing its name.
They have found another ass to kiss.
But Bay du Nord?
Furey says: Prime Minister, thy will be done.
People think its (just) Bay du Nord, when at stake is the whole offshore oil industry; Bay du Nord just the beginning.
No one really cares – at least, not enough to be
afraid.
Not enough to do something.
In every nook and cranny, in every business, city and town, in
every house and shed, we find ourselves on bended knee, waiting for the scraps that Ottawa
sends.
The NL public prays; they pray loudly, beseechingly; some would offer
their first born in gratitude, placing themselves into Ottawa’s hands.
Ottawa will take care of us. Won’t they?
Hear it again: The sound of prayer, of supplication and plea, of
knees pounding the laminate, each impression returning the echo
of entreaty, deference, petition and appeal.
It's the sound of submission, of cower. From a society lacking confidence, a people misled, a society failing itself, the last dime long spent.
For gratitude unearned; a collectively dignity spurned.
Now, we'll double down rather than fight; we'll pray, hold vigils and processions – we'll applaud the Prime Minister, give him favor, the right to skewer the Atlantic Accord, to ransack the last
vestige of well-paid work, to finish off a place on the edge of abyss.
Forget what we brought into Confederation.
What matters is that the Canadian environmental lobby is placated, the Maud Barlows silenced, the sanctimonious embraced.
And at whose cost, as other modern economies burn coal, build more coal plants, build their economies?
Premier Furey. He is just like us.
Weak. A sheep.
The Prime Minister will look after us.
Won't he?
Yes, and sheep get sheared.
