BROWNTAXER was a Money Cat, with funds that he would âmergeâ;
fact, he is the most imprudent cat that ever had the urge
to tax from farthings at Landâs End right up to Johnâs old groats
rejoicing in his title of “The Terror of the Votes.”
His manners were taxatious, his take, you calculate it please;
his coat was full and bulging, he was creaking at the knees;
both ears were somewhat deaf, no need to tell you why,
and he scowled upon a hostile world from one forbidding eye.
The lobby-fodder of West Minn knew something of his fame
at Threadneedle, the City too, people shuddered at his name.
Woe to the crispy Banknote, thatâs earned on foreign trips,
and woe to any Taxee with whom Browntaxer comes to grips!
But most to Cats of non-Scots race his hatred he had vowed;
to Cats of foreign name and face no quarter was allowed.
The Welsh, and English too, regarded him with fears –
because it was these races that bent most his shellacked ears.
Browntaxer, anally at Number Two, wished only Number Ten,
so to the sound of ringing ears – midnight, it was Big Ben –
compulsive re promotion, and brooking of no delay –
on moonless night Browntaxer thought heâd found a way !
And so he gave the signal to his well-oiled leftish hordes,
with a frightful burst of briefings all Tax-men swarmed abroad,
abandoning discretion, their committees, and like junk,
they battened down the hatches on the Numb One in his bunk.
The ruthless Taxers pressed forward, so stubborn, seat by seat;
Browntaxer, to no oneâs surprise, never gave up his bleat;
he who had so many citizens driven, unto that final drop,
at the end of all his crimes could only say âKer-plopâ,
For the millions, called âPoll-fodderâ that had paid so dear so long,
uprose and saw the chance for Browntaxer to be gone,
and in what would come to be called the âGreat Labour of Loveâ
expelled both Numbers One and Two, with a last liberating shove ….
Alan McAlpine Douglas