The money we make through sweat and strain
Somehow disappears down the collector’s drain.
For a modest stake we work like sin,
Then sadly watch Uncle Sam rake it in.
We nurse our ulcers, baby our hearts,
Patch our carcass as it falls apart:
Our back gets bent, our bottom sore,
As we keep striving for more and more.
At last, I’ve finally seen the light,
I ain’t got a chance to win the fight.
So, the rest of my days are gonna be mine,
The Treasury can find a new valentine.
Mallard will fly and trout will rise,
Nature still believes in free enterprise.
Give me a gun and a fishing line,
A campfire’s smoke, the whispering pine,
Give me a stream, a sky of blue,
Slave on suckers – This boy’s through!
It’s coming to me, the pleasure I’ve dodged.
So I’m taking off for Alma Kunz’s Lodge.