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..

Author: Mike Jaycock

Living life at Eagle Lake, Ontario, Canada.

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