Alma Kunz’s Lodge By Herbert C. Hardy

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.