As Uber and Lyft are to taxis,
As AirB&B is to lodging
We need a low-cost solution
To enable the art of tax-dodging.
Uber and Lyft are slang and misspellings.
AirB&B is the service plus “air.”
I suggest “AirTyght” for our no-tax service
And if you disagree I don’t care.
Nixon heard of the Laffer curve
And thought it was a joke.
Reagan heard of the Laffer curve
And said “that’s why we’re broke!”
Obama heard of the Laffer curve
And asked “what did you smoke?”
Trump heard of the Laffer curve
And said “this is bigly woke!”
Most of you heard of the Laffer curve
For the first time just now,
You don’t know what it is
Or how it affects your chow.
So please look up the Laffer curve
So as to be better informed
And we can get to fixing
All the folks who’ve been social-normed.
Once a year we celebrate
The gruesome and bizarre,
The stuff that gives clowns nightmares
And makes wolves hide under cars.
We make light of the horrific,
Let go the values we hold dear…
We call this celebration “tax day”
And it’ll come in half a year.
Sometimes I take a bath
To ease the stress of taxation.
I fill the tub with herbs
Such as thyme for relaxation.
And income taxes
Are emotionally the same.
There’s little fun
In either one,
And both will cause you pain.
No one says
“I’ve made enough
“And I’m happy to contribute
“To an elite few
“Who’ll give to you
My wealth to redistribute.”
Who go online
To stop their solo-selfie habit
Will seldom say
“She looks ok.
“I just hope we don’t kill the rabbit.”
Fill out some forms
Which make you very bored.
A silent alarm
Says “this may cause harm,
“But chances are you’ll be ignored.”
You look closely
For line 1F,
It’s gone, but you search some more,
Then you say “good enough”
To five digits of fluff
(Or for poets like me, prob’ly four).
And then your attention
Goes all out
On trying to attractively answer
“What makes you feel alright
“On a Saturday night?”
When the truth’s “writing poems about Cancer.”
And when you’re finished
You feel exposed
And tired from each number and letter,
But you won’t go to jail
Or with sexy toys flail.
Now there, don’t we all feel better?
Putrid lasers fill the air
At the annual super villain’s fair.
Cackles dance among the stars
As they network and blow up cars.
And I look on with quiet glee,
Knowing the evilest of all is me.
I will release a weapon of dire stress:
A letter from the IRS.