A poem about taxation reflects the mood of the nation

A friend sent me this poem today from Charley Reese's final column for the Orlando Sentinel. I thought you might enjoy it as much as I do:

Tax his land,
Tax his bed,
Tax  the table,
At which he's fed.

Tax his tractor,
Tax his mule,
Teach him taxes
Are the rule.

Tax his work,
Tax his pay,
   He works for
        Peanuts anyway!

          Tax his cow,
               Tax his goat,
                 Tax his pants,
                    Tax his coat.

Tax his ties,
Tax his shirt,
Tax his work,
Tax his dirt.

Tax his tobacco,
Tax his drink,
Tax him if he
Tries to think.

          Tax his cigars,
              Tax his beers,
              If he cries
              Tax his tears.

             Tax his car,
             Tax his gas,
             Find other ways
             To tax his ass.

Tax all he has
Then let him know
That  you won't be done
Till he has no dough.

When he  screams and hollers;
Then tax him some more,
Tax him till
He's good and sore.

Then tax his coffin,
Tax his grave,
Tax the sod in
Which he's laid...

Put these words
Upon his tomb,
'Taxes drove me
to my doom...'

When he's gone,
Do not relax,
Its time to apply
The inheritance tax.