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!

There’s 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.