The
Taxing Task
(An Annual Celebration)
Dear
Uncle Sam, I must admit,
I'm miffed more than a little bit.
Tax instructions oh-so-thick
to contemplate them made me sick --
which ill-prepared me for the job
of calculating what you rob!
Don't say ungrateful, for I'm not!
Enjoy, I do, this rotten plot
that robs the innocent of sleep
with nightmares vivid, whilst you creep
the tax rates up, deductions down
to buy the Congress one more round
of percs not needed, wealth untold,
for dangerous pirates, thieves so Bold!
I
read for hours, nights on end,
anxious, yes -- "Thou shalt not sin
against the IRS" -- OH NO!
Their hammer packs a mighty blow.
I would not be caught underneath
so read and read. My insides seeth
at how you made the plain unclear,
increasing stress, and building fear
(of what we can not ever know;
just find the lines and fill in so!)
I
followed each and every sign
to someplace else I could not find
until in desperate, sweating pain
I reached the top again, insane.
What language is this written in?
I know these words but have not been
where they are spoken thus and so --
'Tis not in English, that I know!
This
final draft I now submit.
And hope you find no fault with it.
It all adds up just as it should,
and I paid as much as I possibly could.
The envelope you said was there
was not, of course, but I do not care;
I'll hand to you, with gratitude
and three more words -- STUFF IT DUDE!
I
think it only fair, you see,
to say to you what you said to me!
Dear Uncle Sam, I must admit.
I'm miffed more than a little bit.
