Gnarled hands

Oleg Volk

His daddy was an Irishman who fled his native land
His mother was a Russian gal of similar descent
He lived up in hills, far from the reds or black and tans
His nose to the grindstone, working with his hands

One day some taxmen came to take that man away
Because he had a muffler left from the olden days
It kept his rifle muffled since 1928, so he could hear
Clearly the words his children say

The taxmen weren't listening, they told him: "five to ten"
For he was a dangerous felon for lack of a single tax stamp
The taxmen had no pity, they were trying to meet their plan
For imprisoning all who weren't properly shackled men

His mother was long gone by then and so was his dad
His children lived in other states far from his little farm
He though about the next decade spent in a prison cell
Decided, on the balance, he'd rather just be dead

He has no weapon that they could see, apart from his two old hands
But years of labor had made him hard, stronger than most men
He strangled one behind the van, hidden from others' sight
Then he had a gun and he had a plan which trumped all their plans

Before the light of that day had waned, he got all of his guests
And vultures had feasted quite well, indeed, on fresh revenuer flesh
And he left his home, escaping again, to where I cannot tell
A testament to the notion that free men cannot be suppressed