The "Gold"-en Years

The "Gold"en Years


It's springtime and the sun is shining
so why do I feel naught but gloom?
Once more the government is mining
in my pockets. Taxes loom.

April 15th fast approaches;
papers pile high on my desk.
My tax program, with its coaches,
drag me through a strange burlesque.

My income's shrunk – and still I pay
a tax on taxes previously
collected "for the coming day."
They do it oh so deviously.

For years I paid and paid some more
into Social Security
so in my dotage, there'd be a floor;
protection from crass poverty.

It came out each month like clockwork,
a part of each dollar I made,
so that my future I'd not shirk
while I was young and unafraid.

For each of MY dollars returned -
they act like it's some kind of gift
ignoring that each one I earned.
I'm treated like I'm on the grift.

There's little left after their feast;
they gather round the carrion
and pick my bones like craven beasts
and say it's humanitarian.

Retired, in my golden years,
I'm still have wits enough to see
even through my falling tears
they only see the gold - not me.

An entry for Round 14 of "The Humorous Poetry Contest"