The Long Arm

The long arm of the Taxation Department has frequently reached the pockets of travellers on the point of departure from the country.

It's a long arm, and a strong arm,
    And it reaches out for miles.
It's the ruin of much happiness,
Destroyer, too, of smiles.
It's the finisher of sweet content,
    And the hand that's at the end
Is a large hand and a greedy hand
    That never knows a friend.

The gay and blithesome traveller
    Makes ready for the trip;
His wardrobe trunk is in the hold,
    And in his hand his grip.
Cigars and flask are stowed away
    His cash he gaily packs,
When, lo, the long arm reaches out
    And socks him for the tax.

It reaches out from Broome to Cairns,
    From York to Digger's Rest,
From Bungaree to Beetaloo,
    And gives a man no rest.
Hide he in bush or bungalow,
    Slab hut or ant-hill plain,
The long arm reaches out for him,
    And drags him back again.

My friends, we are all Frankensteins,
    The monster we've created,
To chase us up and down the land,
    With cash is never sated.
Year in, year out, we fill his maw
    And still his maw is gaping.
We duck and dodge and deviate,
    And yet there's no escaping.

In early morns I lie awake,
    What time the daylight waxes,
Evolving some most cunning plan
    For dodging unjust taxes.
Then I arise and take my bath,
    Collect my daily mail,
And, lo, I find the long arm there—
    The arm that cannot fail.

It's a long arm, and a strong arm,
    And the hand that's at the end
Is a large hand, and a greedy hand,
    That knows no man as friend.
And, brothers, as I sit and think,
    I am filled with vague alarm.
Some day there will be nothing left
    Except that grasping arm.