Ljóðið um skatta

Bloggritari birtir þetta frábæra ljóð um skattagleði stjórnvald á frummálinu. Hægt er við að merking þess glatist í þýðingu og því sleppt.

 

Tax his land, tax his wage,

Tax his bed in which he lays.

Tax his tractor, tax his mule,

Teach him taxes is the rule.

 

 

Tax his cow, tax his goat,

Tax his pants, tax his coat.

Tax his ties, tax his shirts,

Tax his work, tax his dirt.

 

 

Tax his chew, tax his smoke,

Teach him taxes are no joke.

Tax his car, tax his grass,

Tax the roads he must pass.

 

 

Tax his food, tax his drink,

Tax him if he tries to think.

Tax his sodas, tax his beers,

If he cries, tax his tears.

 

 

Tax his bills, tax his gas,

Tax his notes, tax his cash.

Tax him good and let him know

That after taxes, he has no dough.

If he hollers, tax him more,

Tax him until he’s good and sore.

 

Tax his coffin, tax his grave,

Tax the sod in which he lays.

Put these words upon his tomb,

"Taxes drove me to my doom!"

 

 

And when he’s gone, we won’t relax,

We’ll still be after the inheritance tax.

 

-Author unknown.