Those Annual Bills by Mark Twain

Even in death I cannot escape them
monthly rent utility taken
fridge frozen oven heated
car filled up with gas re-peated
expletive deleted
but maybe now it should be included
these Fucking Taxes
my where-with-all diluted
I’m occluded with rage
a bird flown back in his cage
to munch on an onion
while others ask questions
and infinite bards receive pensions
despite pretense of tensions

unmention me yearly is all the fame I’m here for
Uncle Sam knock upon another’s door
a poet should be as exempt as a Rabbi or priest
especially when true gospel is teached