The taxmen, on their horses, huge and pale,
Rode soberly. They were not drunk of ale.
Ah no! For they were drunk of human folly.
It was despair that made them fat and jolly.
‘Friend, is it you?’ they shouted on the road.
‘We have your number and we have your code.
Fear not, dear friend, your letter’s in the post.
You were, and are, indubitably toast:
We’ll have your house and chattels at a stroke!’
And how they laughed, yet no man shared the joke.
And no man with them rode. They rode alone
And spoke continually by telephone.
They rode alone, for no man would beside
Great Satan and his laughing devils ride.
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