Don’t worry, bub, there’s not a hitch
In this here noble plan-
He simply soaks the filthy rich
And helps the common man.
But, father, won’t there come a time
When they run out of cash
And we have left them not a dime
When things will go to smash?
My faith in you is shrinking, son,
You nosy little brat;
You do too dam much thinking, son,
To be a Democrat.