
Baa baa,
Black Sheep,
Have you any wool?
Yes, marry, have I,
Three bags full:
One for my master,
One for my dame,
And one for the little boy
That lives in the lane!
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A Clip Job
Theres no escaping them. Taxes are as inevitable as death and a bad haircut before your big date. Despite its bouncy tone, this rhyme is a lament about the burden of paying taxes. In the Middle Ages, a hard-working peasant was required to give one third of his income to the King, my master, and one third to the fat nobility, my dame, leaving only a final third for himself, the little boy. This rhyme was his sing-along 1040 tax form. So next April 15th, remember that even long ago, taxes made people feel fleeced.


References
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