These F@#*king Taxes
These taxes are killing me,
tax my soul, my heart
tax my love to pay for hate
blowing up in the name of state;
well, I'll file them for you,
little machines of death,
and you'll call yourself Caesar,
but all you really do
is make it difficult to please her:
the money could be for flowers,
or new shoes on cold feet.
You ought to put this money
into making our cultures meet
with handshakes and cheek kisses,
these are more targeted
than your smart bomb misses.
So, here's my god damned money
that I worked hard all year for
and there you go again
simply ignoring the dying poor.
Fine – I'll go and march
in the May day parade
with the people really working
and not playing charades
while you take my money
and destroy other places,
so these new homeless
have somewhere to go,
come to our golden shores
since we blew up yours.