Tax Reform

If a punishment ought to fit the crime
Then the wealthy must be bled with leeches
Or at least endure this humble rhyme
To counteract conservative screeches.
They say dollars are not national blood,
But mother's milk only they must suckle.
If others suggest that they share the flood
The response will be a haunting chuckle.
Somehow, laughing all the way to the bank
Has become a respected way to act.
Whatever happened to that tough old yank
That would shake his head at that lack of tact?
     He sits, there, by an economic ghost
     And warns "Healthy leeches make a sick host".