The ballad of financial ruin, of those abused by the bureaucracy, felled prey to the profiteering which abounds in all aspects of the modern society.

The home mortgage has foreclosed.
The taxes came and I could not pay,
so the IRS took my shirt away,
but they can't put a lien on my brain.
All they can do is try to drive me insane,
yet my feet are accustomed to rain.
Getting wet now and then may bring me a pain
but to try to escape it's in vain
for the just and unjust; they likewise remain.

But I'm all right
and I'll still be here
to make it through the night
and their day will not see me gone
from the pain and the strife
of everyday life.
I shall be their thorn,
to cry and deride the societal drain
and the lenders will just make a sigh
as I tell them my wallet is dry.

Tonight the stars,
tomorrow, the worldly scars
inflicted by the branding iron of bureaucracy
born into slavery, to a master that has no real name,
no face. Just an arbitrary place
assigned by a million lies,
designed to profiteer us to die.

But they'll never take my midnight sky,
no matter how much they may try.