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.”