(Verse 1)
In a downtown office once upon a time,
He chased the slip-and-falls, every nickel, every dime.
Had a briefcase full of promises, a tie a little tight,
Thought the law would make him noble, thought the world would see him right.
But the velvet seats of Parliament whispered out his name,
And he traded in his purpose for a title with no flame.
(Pre-Chorus)
Now he’s flying through the night skies,
Between St. Kitts and Ottawa lies—
A life of empty schedules,
A chorus of goodbyes…
(Chorus)
Ohhh, Chris Brittle…
You’re a shadow in the hallway, fading like a lonely song.
Ohhh, Chris Brittle…
You’ve been backbenching heartless, backbenching far too long.
With that Grinch-smile grin and that bargain-bin style,
Blocking every voice that dares to question for a while…
You’re a man without passion, without reason, without fire—
Just a pension growing higher and an empty, hollow choir.
(Verse 2)
He scrolls through every comment like a sentinel of doom,
Terminally online inside a taxpayer-funded room.
No courage in his inbox, no backbone in his vote,
Just a photocopied handshake and whatever line he’s told.
He used to say he’d change things, he used to dream out loud—
But the echo in his condo is his only faithful crowd.
(Pre-Chorus)
Now he’s counting down the slow days,
As his relevance decays—
Nothing left but window seats
And well-rehearsed clichés…
(Chorus)
Ohhh, Chris Brittle…
You’re the ghost of a promise, drifting down a one-way track.
Ohhh, Chris Brittle…
You wave to empty chambers, no one’s ever waving back.
With that boyish little haircut from the neighbourhood salon,
And a smile stretched so thin it’s barely hanging on…
You’re a man without a compass, without truth to ever own—
Just a fancy job title and a dim, forgotten throne.
(Bridge)
Where did all the fire go?
Where did all the daylight fade?
Was it swallowed by the privilege
Of the choices that you made?
You traded in your purpose,
You traded in your pride—
Now the only thing that grows for you
Is the pension by your side…
(Final Chorus)
Ohhh, Chris Brittle…
Can you hear the world calling, asking you to finally stand?
Ohhh, Chris Brittle…
Or will you drift forever, just a footnote in the land?
With the echoes of your silence ringing louder every year,
And the truth you never faced becoming all you ever fear…
You’re a man without a heartbeat in the places where it counts—
Just a title…
Just a number…
Just a name that won’t amount.
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- MAT SISCOE AND THE POLITICS OF THE GM SITE: How St. Catharines Keeps Setting the Table for BayShore
- POLICING THE CRITIC: A Story About NRPS Priorities
- WHEN A PRIDE FLAG BECOMES A TARGET: The Crown V Chandler C. Robinson
- SECRECY, SURVEILLANCE, AND THE PUBLIC’S RIGHT TO KNOW: Inside the NRPS’s Secret $534,000 Technology Purchase
- On the Failure of Escape
