Is It Gone Yet?

If I pretend it’s not there,
maybe it will go away.
I will shut my eyes,
stick my fingers in my ears,
be quiet as a mouse.
Is it gone yet?

Every year it’s the same.
I am stalked by this specter.
I can predict the day when
it’s foul stench will bring
a chill to the air.

Can no one save me from
this terrible tyrant?
Even now I hear footsteps approaching.
A boney hand rests on my shoulder,
frigid breath falls on my neck.
And then that wicked chuckle.
Save me!

The Tax Man cometh.