Black Saturday

They say a touch of spring is in the air; They say the wattle trees with bloom are gay; They say each garden now begins to wear (Not that I care) A festal garb that waxes day by day In loneliness. They tell, too, of blue skies Aglow with hope . . . I laugh them all to scorn, And gaze upon these things with listless eyes That see nought but a vista most forlorn. They say that bird songs come now with a rush Of rarest melody; the ambient air Thrills to the voice of blackbird and of thrush (I answer 'Tush! Let 'em go sing their heads off. I don't care.') They say a kindly sun beams o'er the earth. They say - Bah! Who pays heed to what they say? Life is a sham; a mockery is mirth; I'm making out my income tax today.