Tho we seem to reach the turning
And the Government is yearning
To brings us swift releif, and make a cut
In the burden of the taxes,
As fond hope within us waxes
Sounds, like the knell of doom, the fatal 'but.'

Oh, that stultifying 'but'!
Every avenue is shut
That leads to that Nirvana that men must believe in still;
And a tantalising star
Gleams as ever yet afar,
As we trudge the weary, winding road that ever goes uphill.

Who can doubt the skies are clearing?
Who can doubt good days are nearing?
We are climbing from depression's gloomy rut.
Now from tax relief we'll borrow
Gladness, and, today, tomorrow
At the latest, end our sorrow surely - but -

Oh, the aggravating 'but'!
When the poor tax-paying mutt
Builds his pretty house of dreams where gold becomes a glut,
Some prosaic politician
Coldly lights the whole position
With the cold, hard light of truth, and dreams go phut!