By John W. Whitehead
If you drive a car, I’ll tax the street,
If you try to sit, I’ll tax your seat.
If you get too cold I’ll tax the heat,
If you take a walk, I’ll tax your feet.
Don’t ask me what I want it for
If you don’t want to pay some more
‘Cause I’m the taxman, yeah, I’m the taxman…
And you’re working for no one but me.
— George Harrison, “Taxman”
We’re not living the American Dream. We’re in the grip of a financial nightmare.
“We the people” have become the new, permanent underclass in America.
We get taxed on how much we earn, taxed on what we eat, taxed on what we buy, taxed on where we go, taxed on what we drive, and taxed on how much is left of our assets when we die, and yet we have no real say in how the government runs, or how our taxpayer funds are used.
Case in point: Lawmakers across the country have been acting as fronts for corporations, sponsoring more than 10,000 model laws written by corporations, industry groups and think tanks such as the American Legislative Exchange Council.
Make no mistake: this is fascism disguised as legislative expediency.
My song update:
words and music © 2013 Desmond Grundy
Last call of the night
Cold and windy outside
Hear the number ring
Coming through the static on the line
Pull my hat up. Look down at the ground
Tuck my chin in. Squint my eye.
Almost human, learning to smile
Bill collector, get me that file
Next call’s in my ear
Asking for my name and my id
I look up at the clock
While bringing up a name on a machine
She tells me I’m wrong
but she owes me the money
Tells me, ‘don’t call me again’
Almost human, eyes all around
Bill collector, making that sound
This kind of delight
Where I’m not in charge of myself
I’m so compromised
Have no fear. It’s my job.
Offers her body, almost for nothing
Some things I’m not so sorry I said
Words ringing up and down the aisle
Bill collector, broken speed dial