I’ve marched here across my anchored points
Delivering pain to sinister few.
The tax man has come,
And he’s collected from me.
Now I’m delivering antisocial notes
With expressed tones,
Lingering intonations,
Fingering about my fretting tongue.
Gathering my fees, I’m straddling.
Marching and lifting and leaving.
And condemning, loudly condemning
The unspoken children, gallantly smiling.
So leave me here if you’ve forgotten your manners.
I’m not ancient, I’m not sunken deep.
Present and lofty and collecting a fee,
The tax man has come, and he’s fixin’ for souls.