Our Kevin

With apologies to Edgar Allan Poe. Sorry dude, I butchered your poem.

Once upon a midyear needy, Twiggy pondered, great and greedy,
Over many a profitable mine of gold and iron ore—
While he plotted, neatly mapping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at the office door.
“’Tis some investor,” he muttered, “tapping at my office door—
Only this and nothing more.”

Soon Fortescue’s gold grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
Twiggy said, “Dear sir, truly your investment I implore;
For the fact is I am racking, so much money up from ransacking,
Our own country’s natural trappings, trappings of such precious ore,
That I scarce was sure I heard you” - here he opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Open here he flung the shutter, when, with much of spin and splutter,
In there stepped a stately Kevin of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; nor mining magnates obeyed he;
But, with demeanour slightly shady, haunched beside the office door -
Haunched upon a bust of Howard just beside the office door -
Haunched, and taxed, and nothing more.

Then this spectacled man beguiling Twiggy’s fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the tax measures he bore,
”Though thy tax be law to leaven, it,” Twiggy said, “will be no Heaven.
Ghastly grim and ancient Kevin now claiming my rightful ore—
Tell me when thee shall return this share of super-profitable ore!”
Quoth our Kevin, `Nevermore.'

Twiggy marvelled this unpopular man to here his answer stop,
Though his discourse little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For no living human being could have ever helped agreeing
That Kevin would be seeing none of his precious ore—
By a tax or gift or mutual trust none of his precious ore,
Neither now nor nevermore.

But our Kevin, sitting lonely by the broken bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his plans in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing on super had he uttered - not on infrastructure started -
Twiggy scarcely more than muttered “Ministers have gone before -
I will have him voted out, and super profits will be restored.”
Quoth our Kevin, `Nevermore.'

Then, the whole debate grew denser, driven by an unseen censor,
Swung by editor’s whose ethics tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' cried Twiggy, “my money lent thee – for these projects I have sent thee
Over five percent – plenty of my profits from this ore!
Enough, oh enough taxation, as it always was before!”
Quoth our Kevin, `Nevermore.'

”Profit!” cried Twiggy, “isn’t evil! – my profit, you Labor devil! -
Whether treasury, or whether treasured votes brought thee to my door,
Unpopular but all puffed up, to this desert I’ve dug up-
Lift this tax, a total stuff up – or I will go offshore -
I will – I will go to China! – and take our profits offshore!”
Quoth our Kevin, `Nevermore.'

And our Kevin, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
By the hollow bust of Howard just beside the office door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a public servant’s scheming,
And the review through him streaming throws his tax upon the ore;
Twiggy’s profits from this tax that now lies upon the ore
Shall be lifted - nevermore!