His locks flying, the Prince did a little two-step with the missus just before his final speech to the Party faithful and the yawning media.
The Prince was home, where he belonged.
It's been forty years since the King received his Crown, nearly twenty-odd since the King set down his golden chalice and sped off into the sunset leaving his kingdom fractured and in disarray.
That day, the subjects remember well. Half the country was mourning, the other half rejoicing.
"The King is dead," said the detractors. "Long live the King," said his supporters.
For ten years, the land has been sleeping under the strong arm of the dastardly Sheriff of Calgary who rode into town to take advantage of the vaccuum and play the odd tune on the piano.
It's time, the people said, yesterday.
It's His Time.
And so the nation waits with breath bated until the Prince can muster his forces and vanquish the Sheriff. There is much work to be done.
Must gas to be spilled.
But vanquish the Sherriff, the Prince will.
His people are sure of it.
The Sheriff is old. His hair is lacquered, his eyes are weak.
The Prince is young. He wears contacts.
Long live the Liberal Party, the keeper of the flame.
Long live Prince Justin.
May he give us hope in both official languages.