And the smiles were like beams that broke the cloud
Of impending, rank perjury.
The blanks I filled in from A to O,
But omitted the “profits from sale”—
I once grew rich with a plow and hoe,
When a whistling boy and hale.
In those olden days no kind of a tax
For City or State revenue
Was imposed on boys except a few whacks,
But now they forever are due.