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Bruce, Caroline


In an age of budget cuts,
Employers using axes,
We're sure, no ands or ifs or buts,
Of always having taxes.

"We wish you yearly to remember
The blessings you have got."
We must save starting in November,
Man, someone should be shot!

We pay the artist's struggling wage
For smodges splashed on canvas,
Or the orchestra that no one hears ...
How do we ever stand this?

the city streets crumble to dust,
But ballet groups get paid,
To fund the arts, we're told's a must,
On that our culture's made.

We fund the theater-goer's dream
To watch the Wiz' of Oz,
We write the check, they drink it down,
It's such a worthy cause!

"Be glad, be glad!" the words resound
"That you have cash to give!
But after paying, I have found,
There's none for me to live!

And after I have paid the author
For writing crappy books,
I pay again, it's such a bother!
So bad for me it looks.

When will there be a tax on sleep?
I bet it happens soon,
My skimpy paycheck they'll just keep,
My savings lie in ru'n.

But I must pay, oh yes I must,
I mustn't whine a bit,
The gov, they say, I have to trust.
Oh yeah? They're full of malarkey.


I know it's a serious subject, but you are so dang funny. Sometimes, being humorous is the only way to get through.
All I have to say is "LOL"!

I got into a spirited debate about arts funding with someone I work with last week (they are for it, I am not). She thought we needed to support struggling artists in all fields so that we continue to have our own identity and aren't swallowed whole by the evil empire south of us...I maintain that if an artist has what it takes, they can make it without having to use government money. The people should decide what their culture is. Not what we are force-fed by CBC. To that end, I have to say that there are a few CDN entities that are making it on their own (Corner Gas, as well as a few famous musicians, etc.), proving that talent trumps all in the end.
And some Canadian authors, too. But have you ever noticed, you can recognize a Canadian book by its plot? Old guy thinks back on life, regrets some kind of mistakes; novel flashes back to when old guy was less old, when the mistake was made; novel flashes back to old guy again, who is getting progressively drunk, but before he passes out he realizes that (a) he wasn't to blame in the first place, (b) he was to blame, but someone else as well, (c) there's nothing he can do about it, or (d) life really is as miserable as he thought it was in the beginning of the book and he might as well drink his brains out. Either that or old woman is sitting alone with her collection of paintings; flash back to when old woman was young beautiful girl who got raped and mistreated by every male in the book except the gay guy; flash forward to old woman, getting progressively drunk, defacing her paintings, but realizing that she is woman, hear her roar, and that not even the inherent evil of all things male can take that away from her.