We sweat and strive, we scrape and save,
To gather bullets for the brave.
We earn a pound; but in the end
Ten shillings is the sum we spend.
We go about in tattered coats,
Because the nation needs our notes,
The fruits of art, research, and skill,
The scholar's book, the poet's quill,
The old man's pipe, the widow's cheese-
The Chancellor spares none of these:
And every time you wet your lips
You float a brace of battleships.
All this we cheerfully forgive
That England-and the World-may live.
But if I put a reckless pound
On some one's else's horse or hound
(Not surely, quite the thing to do
When careless spending is taboo?),
On such transactions, great or small,
I do not pay a tax at all-
Not even if the creature wins!
They tax our virtues, not our sins.
Do we forgive this? We do not:
Because, Sir John, it's rather rot.
April 16, 1944