The I.R.S. knocked on my door.
Although I am very poor,

They said, “You owe us money.”
I said, “That ain’t funny.
No… That ain’t funny.”

“It’s called Taxes,” they said.
And slapped me upside my head.

“I paid it last year,” I swore.
They said, “But now you owe us some more.”

“How much, how much, how much?” I asked.

They said, “’Figure it out’ will be YOUR task…”
I said, “So I’m  just supposed to pay what I think I owe?”

They said, “No. No. No. No. No. No.
We know exactly how much.”

I said, “Is it the same as last year? Or more? Or less?”

“They said, We ain’t gonna tell you… 
You’re just gonna have to guess.”

I said, “But what if I’m wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong?”

They said, “Maybe we’ll add on some fees.”
They said, “Maybe we’ll take your keys.”
They said, “Maybe you’ll go to jail…
We’ll see.”

And now I’m telling you why I’m blue.
They said…

“We’re from the I.R.S.”
     I.R.S.
“And we’re here to help you.”

“We’re from the I.R.S.
And we’re here to help you.”

“We’re from the I.R.S.
And we’re here to help you.”

“We’re from the I.R.S.”
     I.R.S.
“And we’re here to help you.”

“And we’re here to help you.”

© Roy H. Williams, Tiny Tribe music