I’m really not sure how it happened,
Still less how my street-cred went Boom –
I’m so full of stress, I’ll go snap, and
Be plunged into visions of doom.
I thought that I’d live my life up to the max,
But now it transpires I’m not paying tax.
The worst of it all is not knowing
How the money appeared overseas –
My account may have been overflowing,
But no, I’ve not paid any fees:
God, I feel sick, and wholly unshaven –
How did it land in a tax-dodgers’ haven?
One minute, there it was, profit –
A bonus or three, nothing grand.
We all have these millions, come off it,
You can feel with the palm of your hand:
I checked on its movement, it’s not in the diary,
What will I say to the public inquiry?
Of course we’re all in it together –
If only we all could be certain
What follows. The end of my tether?
The drawl of the very last curtain?
It’s the sort of calamity makes us all pause:
And none of us ever broke any such laws.
Perhaps it’s the work of divinity,
And a lesson the hoi-polloi need –
If the taxman is in the vicinity,
It’s bound to inspire some greed –
And besides, as I say to my muckers and mates,
What else can you do with low interest rates?
But still, there’s a faint hint of panic
Wells up in my throat and my purse –
Let’s hope that it makes me galvanic
Before it becomes any worse –
Give me my stash. I hate all that stuff.
This haven’s a dive. It’s not private enough.
Click here for a Guardian story:
Click here for a Telegraph story: