'But'

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!