MarkStoval | A skinny fellow, name of Pickins
Made a livin’ raisin’ chickens.
Traded eggs for other stuff;
He was doin’ well enough.
A stranger stopped by for lunch one day,
When it was et, he wouldn’t pay!
Stranger says his name was King,
And Chicken was his favorite thing.
He claimed some revenue was due him;
And Pickins was to give it to him.
Well, Pickins got his musket out
And ran off that ungrateful lout.
Pickins got a surly dog
To guard his chickens and his hog.
He built a fence both tall and stout,
To keep the thieves and vagrants out.
Defense used up his sparse resources,
So Pickins harnessed up his horses.
He plowed more land to grow more oats
To feed his horses and his goats.
He made a little profit, too;
A fresh new colt, a kid or two,
But paper notes he did eschew,
And paperwork and taxes, too.
A tenth he gave to God always,
And thanked Him in his daily praise.
Was in his dealings even handed,
But King a ransom now demanded.
Upon his fields and his flock,
Upon his hat and on his sox.
And even on his largest rocks,
Which gave no graze and grew no crops!
Enormous fees they now assessed
On assets he had never guessed.
And said that he had better pay,
Indeed, upon that very day!
But you’ve not worked to raise the crops,
Your hands are soft; your felly flops.
I’ll pay no revenue to you!
Your claims are void, your logic, too!
They carted Pickins off post-haste,
Confined him in a deep dank place.
Seized his chickens, fields, and pens.
Gave them out to King’s dear friends.
Alas, this is no foolish fable,
Of kingly follies told at table.
Governments, like kings of old,
Coercing peaceful, private souls.
To war against their neighbors,
And tribute pay for doubtful favors.
Codes, and edicts they design.
Proclaiming sovereign right divine.
Pickins future is looking grim,
A ball and chain will keep him trim.
Til king extracts what he deems due,
Til Pickins swears allegiance true.
By John M Haugen
