Arriving home
There’s a scary brown
Envelope on the doormat
Marked Her Majesty’s
Revenue and Customs
Tearing it open
What delights will I find
Within its mysterious
Pale buff uniform?
Maybe it’s a rebate…? Oh…
Despite me being
A P.A.Y.E. Wage Slave
With all these money matters
Far outside my control
It takes a disapproving tone
Authoritarian
Ways inform me that
YOU, yes, wicked evil YOU!
Have paid too little tax!
We’re sending the boys round
Her Madge has dire
Need of my one hundred
And seventy-eight earth quid
But I don’t have to
Do anything myself
They’ll pick my pocket
Every payday for a year
Until it’s been sorted out
Or until the next
Almighty cock-up occurs
Someone somewhere
Must have assumed that with
My dazzling charm and good looks
I must MUST have been
On the married person’s tax code
Someone my great age
Is bound to at least
Be on their fifth or sixth wife
And if not their own
Then probably someone else’s
I hope Her Madge
Enjoys my one hundred
And seventy-eight crisp quid
But doesn’t want to buy
Too many missiles with it
Martin
A W Holmes, October 2016
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