Economist at Fayetteville Arkansas
It was a chilly afternoon
At story-telling time.
Old Kaspar chewed a dead cigar
and thinned his rum-and-lime,
While Peterkin and Wilhelmine
Turned on the futurama screen.
They watched while pairs of burly men
Within a factory yard
Would lift each worker by the heels
And shake him long and hard,
While others sifted through the trash
Collecting all the fallen cash.
“Now tell us what it’s all about!”
The little children cried.
“It is another payroll tax,”
Old Kaspar soon replied.
“The cash will pay the doctor bills
Of older folks with chronic ills.”
“The Welfare State,” said Kaspar then,
“Devours private wealth.
Whatever tax collectors miss
Inflation takes by stealth.
That’s why we old retired folks
Have many ills, but empty pokes.”
“Who paid the old folks’ doctor bills
Before the Planners came?”
“They paid their own,”
Old Kaspar sighed,
“But times were not the same.
A prudent man could always save
Enough to last him to his grave.”
