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The Jungle of the White

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April 15th of every year
The day that I hold so dear
My hobby is hard for people to hear
That’s okay. They have nothing to fear.
When I leave work every day
Whistling to myself as job turns to play
My job is one for which most would pay
On my side for hours upon hours I lay
I work in the great outdoors
Counting deer, cattle, and boars
Watching ants and bugs fight wars
Listening to the great musical scores
This job I regard with displeasure
My hate for open air is without measure
I’d much prefer writing in a ledger
Instead of operating this stupid hedger
An accountant I wished to be
Alas, they said it was not for me
I killed oh so many trees
Boss thought I had to be free
Why is it a crime, I say?
To want to write all day
Not poems about picnics in May
But numbers and forms so the rulers can pay
Taxes are what I choose to do
Who can like them, says you?
Said I, they’re what I choose
Though it is a problem, true.
Every day I get home to my house, bare
I shut all the crevices to stuff the air
Running my fingers through my deep black hair
Wondering how can they dare
Five forms are gone
All joined into one a long one
How can that be any fun
Who wants to have time to run?
It’s not just taxes I like
Anything that normal people fight
To me, it feels so right
Paperwork is my greatest vice.



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