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the scourge of bureaucracy and illness
Folder:
Dead Poets
I’d write of the Tax Collector, that predatory fellow Whose appetite for your savings is as boundless as his bellow, And who, when told the Government is “cutting” costs, responds with cheerful yup— For every time they cut a dollar, the total on the bill goes up.
I’d lampoon the hypochondriac who greets each Tuesday with a brand‑new chronic Affliction, announced with a flourish both theatrical and histrionic, While sipping kale smoothies and proclaiming, with a fervour positively Shakespearean‑and‑tonic, That his light head‑cold is not a cold at all but something thoroughly, catastrophically bubonic.
