Methinks We Don't Protest Enough

My husband is a numbers guy. He has an undergrad degree in accounting, an MBA, thirty-five years' experience cracking systems and codes, and trying to figure out the the tax credit for having two children in college had him ready to strangle somebody this year. If someone who has spent THIRTY-FIVE YEARS struggles to do taxes, what hope is there for the poor guy who dropped out of school in tenth grade but is a great mechanic who's owned his own business for fifteen years? Something is wrong, wrong, wrong here in Capitalism Land!

Thus I set the stage for today's featured poem; feel free to vent!

2010 Poetry Parade: Day 15

The Tax Poem
by
Author Unknown

Tax his land, tax his wage,
Tax his bed in which he lays.
Tax his tractor, tax his mule,
Teach him taxes is the rule.

Tax his cow, tax his goat,
Tax his pants, tax his coat.
Tax his ties, tax his shirts,
Tax his work, tax his dirt.

Tax his chew, tax his smoke,
Teach him taxes are no joke.
Tax his car, tax his grass,
Tax the roads he must pass.

Tax his food, tax his drink,
Tax him if he tries to think.
Tax his sodas, tax his beers,
If he cries, tax his tears.

Tax his bills, tax his gas,
Tax his notes, tax his cash.
Tax him good and let him know
That after taxes, he has no dough.

If he hollers, tax him more,
Tax him until he’s good and sore.
Tax his coffin, tax his grave,
Tax the sod in which he lays.

Put these words upon his tomb,
"Taxes drove me to my doom!"
And when he’s gone, we won’t relax,
We’ll still be after the inheritance tax.


This poem is presumed to be in the public domain;
no copyright or credit information can be found.

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