Ze Older Stuff

The Tax Poem

I’m not sure where this comes from, but it’s off of an announcement made in April of last year for a tax protest to be held at the main Post Office here in town as people pulled in to mail their last-minute tax forms to the Infernal Revenue Service.

The Tax Poem

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 ass

Tax the roads he must pass.

Tax his tobacco, tax his drink,

Tax him if he tries to think.

Tax his booze, 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.

—–

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