The taxman came to my front door
and placed his briefcase on my kitchen floor.
He asked if I was rich, richer, or poor,
then eyeballed his phone as though he was bored.
I told him I could settle the score,
if only I made just a tiny bit more.
He flashed a slanted smile and asked, "What for?"
before rustling through the reams of sheets he'd stored,
Numbers spreading like fresh spores,
the papers' crinkling a booming roar.
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