The Tax Poem

Tax his hand, tax his wage,
Tax his bed in which he lays.
Tax his chew, tax his smoke,
Teach him taxes are no joke.


Tax his Car, tax his grass,
Tax the road he must pass.
Tax his Food, tax his drink,
Tax his if he treis to think.


Tax his sodas, tax his beers,
If he cries, tax his tears.
If he hollers, tax his more,
Tax him until he's good and sore.


Tax his coffin, tax his grave,
Tax the sod in which he lays.
Put these words upon his tomb,
"Taxees drove me to my doom ! "


And when he's gone, we won't relax,
We'll still be after the inherittance tax.
                Compiled by K.V.N.Murthy