Yesterday morning I had the delight of being a judge for a Butter Tart Contest at the Treasures N Trash community yard sale, sponsored by the Rails End Gallery and Arts Centre. Following the delightful event I experienced a sugar rush for about 3 hours. I ate every bit of every tart I tested … unlike my fellow judges who were more refined in their sampling. You know what? I loved every morsel of the event and other than the fact that I crashed after the sugar wore off I had no ill effects.
Day: June 19, 2011
A Poem for the Oppressed
Here in Ontario the promises are starting to fly in every direction. We’re getting ready for an election this fall.
Promise this, promise that and be careful of the other guys, ’cause they are “out of touch” … BUT if we get elected. Ho hoa … just watchout.
The lengthy promise list becomes forgotten, or re-written, and re-tooled to suit the reality we voters knew existed all along.
Here’s a little poem that that defines our lives:
Tax his land,
Tax his bed,
Tax the table,
At which he’s fed.
Tax his tractor,
Tax his mule,
Teach him taxes
Are the rule.
Tax his work,
Tax his pay,
He works for peanuts anyway!
Tax his cow,
Tax his goat,
Tax his pants,
Tax his coat.
Tax his ties,
Tax his shirt,
Tax his work,
Tax his dirt.
Tax his tobacco,
Tax his drink,
Tax him if he
Tries to think.
Tax his cigars,
Tax his beers,
If he cries
Tax his tears.
Tax his car,
Tax his gas,
Find other ways
To tax his ass.
Tax all he has
Then let him know
That you won’t be done
Till he has no dough.
When he screams and hollers;
Then tax him some more,
Tax him till
He’s good and sore.
Then tax his coffin,
Tax his grave,
Tax the sod in
Which he’s laid…
Put these words
Upon his tomb,
Taxes drove me
to my doom…’
When he’s gone,
Do not relax,
Its time to apply
The inheritance tax..
Mike Jaycock 