Methinks I see some crooked mimic jeer
And grace my muse with this fantastic tax,
Turning my papers, asks “what have we here?”
Making withall some filthy antic face.
I fear no audit, IRS or CIA,
Nor shall my filing one exemption lose.
Think’st thou my wit shall keep the scofflaw way
That ev’ry bracket low invention goes?
Since returns thus in bundles are impress’d,
And ev’ry cheat doth dull our satiate ear,
Think’st thou my sum shall in those rags be dress’d
That ev’ry dowdy, ev’ry trull doth wear?
Up to my pitch no comm’n assessment flies:
I scorn all earthly dung-bred scarabies.