Tax Poem

    Tax Poem

 

          Some bum accosted me on the street;

          “Spare change, nephew? I need a new hat.”

          He held his stovepipe hat out upside down;

          it was colored blue, white and red

          spangled with stripes and stars,

          battered, worn, and slightly askew.

          “Sam,” I said, for it was none other,

          “You don’t look too well. What’s wrong?”

          “You don’t want to hear my life story - “ he muttered,

          “- that’s true - “ I agreed.

          “So let’s just say I need the dough.

          Money rules the world, you know;

          so how about it, nephew?”

          “Why do you keep calling me nephew?

          I know who my relatives are.”

          “All right then,” he grinned, “I’ll put it this way;

          there’s no use calling the cops,

          I am the cops.”

          “So what is this,” I asked, “a stickup?”

          He handed me a bill. “This is what you owe me.”

          I read the note and cried “Ouch!”

          “And remember,” he said, donning his hat,

          “Filing date is April 15.”