The Taxing

With apologies to Edgar Allan Poe

Once upon an April dreary, West Hartford pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten fiscal lore,
While Slifka nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, at the council chamber door.
`'Tis some resident,' Brennan muttered, `tapping at our chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, how the townfolk did remember it was in the bleak November,
And every separate council member had vowed “No New Taxes!” at their doors.
Then ‘pon the election day’s dark morrow; with no way for the town to borrow
To cover town expenses without sorrow – the only other option residents would deplore;
Higher mill rates to fund parks and pools and to raise low school test scores,

Nameless here for evermore.

Open wide the door was swept, and with his budget figures prepped,
Inside Ron Van Winkle stepped, Town Manager since days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, strode toward council from the door,
And perched upon the lectern placed upon the council chamber floor -
Quoth Van Winkle, `Tax them more!'

Much they marveled how the ungainly budget asked for tax increase so plainly,
Though its answer inhumanely no long-term solution bore;
Then, as if the hike was fated, the new town budget was debated,
For which departments funds were slated. The townsfolk irately recalling vows of yore
Considered them what this grim, ungainly, ghastly, bloated budget bore
Just one thing `Tax them more!'

This and more they sat divining, with council heads at ease reclining
On their cushion's velvet lining that the florescent-light gloated o'er,
`Wretches,' they cried, `thy office we lent thee - by our common votes we sent thee
And now by what presumption meant thee, that our pockets still have more?

Is there no way to pay off Blue Back, gather leaves and to raise the fallen school test scores?
Quoth the Council, `Tax them more.'

`Be that word our sign of parting!' the taxpayers association shrieked upstarting -
`Before thy backsides we leave smarting, back to the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy souls hath spoken!
The current system you have broken! - Quit from the desks you sit before!
Take thy hand from out our pockets, and take thy form from off our door!'
Quoth the Council, `Nevermore.'

And the council, never relaxing, still is sitting, still is taxing
With excuses eloquently waxing, from the council chamber floor;
And their eyes have all the seeming of a politician that is dreaming,
And the florescent-light o'er them streaming throws their shadow on the floor;
And our souls from out that shadow of those taxes that they placed upon our door
Shall be lifted - nevermore!