| Tucholsky poem - your taxes |
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Tucholsky poem - your taxes What's Happened to Your Tax? If someone hasn't got a job, there's no money. If someone sweats and his tummy rumbles, there's no money. But for officers of the Reichswehr and other Very Important Persons, for Directors of the Railway Board and Reichswehr divisions in black, for service to the country at home in Berlin and laid off monarchs - there's money. When a miner coughs blood from his lung, there's no money. When the lodger watches his landlord eat, there's no money. But for business trips for our cousins in Vienna, for industries which are in a bad way, for our starving agriculture, for every loafer in uniform, for battleships and men of the Cross, and for a thousand little luxuries - there's brass, spondulics, shekels and dough. From your taxes. There's money for that. translated from German, written by Kurt Tucholsky in 1924 |
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