I Work For The Irs Poem by Randy Johnson

I regret to say that I work for the IRS.
If you're wondering if people hate me, the answer is yes.
One man let his dogs loose and I started running really fast.
But they chased me down and took big chunks out of my ass.
A kid put a cherry bomb in my pants and lit the fuse.
I couldn't sit for weeks because my ass was bruised.
A lady was so mad that she zapped my nads with a stun gun.
Believe me when I tell you that working for the IRS is not fun.
I'm about to tell you something that you've most likely guessed.
If you want to avoid big hospital bills, don't ever work for the IRS.

(THIS IS A FICTIONAL POEM.)