“It was your mistake,” the angel said,
“To think that because your hands were red
You could pass at once to the realms above,
The beautiful realms of peace and love.
The clerical gents may tell you so,
But this is the place to which murderers go.”
The Income Tax.
H, Goschen, hear us groan,
Relieve our burdened backs;
We weep and wail and moan,
“Reduce the income tax!”
It is a wicked plan,
And decency it lacks;
It makes a Christian man
Say, “Hang the income tax!”
Poor Job, he had to bear
Some very nasty smacks,
But nothing to compare
With this infernal tax.
Not all his pains and aches
Could put him in a wax;
But he’d have shouted, “Snakes!”
If asked for income tax.
Oh, take the curse away,
The cruel curse that racks:
Why should free Britons pay
This most un-British tax?
For years has raged the fight,
Be yours the cry of “Pax,”
And, Britain’s wrongs to right,
Remove the income tax.
On earth that deed shall dwell
Till all creation cracks,
And Fame’s last trumpet tell
How Goschen killed the tax.