Once upon I time I knew the name of the author of the following stanzas, but it has slipped my mind, and not even my omniscient research assistant, Dr. Google, has been able to retrieve it. As I recall, he was an eccentric, politically incorrect fellow, with many of whose ideas I would not want to be associated. On notions dear to certain President candidates, however, and less pleasing to plumbers, he was spot on.
“Father, must I work to eat?”
“Oh, no, my lucky son,
We’re living now on Easy Street,
With dough from Washington.
“We’ve left it up to Uncle Sam;
Now don’t get exercised.
Nobody has to give a damn,
We’ve all been subsidized!”
“But if Sam treats us all so well,
And feeds us milk and honey,
Please tell me, Daddy, where oh where,
He’s going to get the money?”
“Don’t worry son, there ain’t no hitch
To this here noble plan.
He simply soaks the filthy rich,
And helps the common man.”
“But Daddy, won’t there come a time,
If we take all their cash,
When they’ll be left without a dime,
And things will all go smash?”
“My faith in you is shrinking, son,
You nosy little brat!
You do too damn much thinking, son,
To be a Democrat!”
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