When April trumpets blare with good intent,
bright daffodils a’ sway in gentle breeze
I’m milked of every dime, each blessed cent.
My pounding brain grows louder by degrees.
The pain I feel makes it hard to believe
the kinder IRS, so saccharine.
No refund due to me, I won’t receive
enough to buy some blasted aspirin.
The curses on my lips I will repress,
well knowing how I’ll spend my tax rebate.
There is no need to worry or to guess,
to what I owe next year I will donate.
I’m sorry if this leaves me in a funk.
If I had two thin dimes I’d go get drunk!
