My Accountant

Harold Feinberg is doing my taxes
For the eleventh time

Harold is a man of overwhelming sexuality
And when he does my taxes
It's like watching a leopard
Prowl around an antelope

He destroys me
With his calculator

I should introduce myself

My name is Miriam Slater
Four-time widow
One-time mourner
Filthy stinking rich

Harold Feinberg is my accountant

Every year, when tax time rolls around
My friends all start to feel anxious
Worried that they did something wrong during the year
That will somehow make the tax season
That much more stressful

Me?

I don't worry about that
And I certainly don't try to make tax time go by faster

If anything, I try to prolong it

During the year
I write off everything
Anything and everything I can think of

Two years ago
I wrote off buying a Saint Bernard
As a business expense

And when Harold questioned me about it
I told him I was thinking of starting a hot chocolate
Delivery service
In Alaska

It was all a ruse of course
And I think Harold knows that
But he plays along
By wringing his hands
And cursing under his breath
And sometimes crying onto my receipts

Of which there aren't many

'Harold,' I say, 'Who keeps receipts?'

Or I say--

'How was I supposed to know I had to account for that jet liner I bought?'

Or--

'Harold, when you purchase a South American country, you do it in CASH.'

That poor man
I love him so

It costs me dearly, this love

I've been audited so many times
I'm almost out of photos
To blackmail Senators with

But it's worth it
To spend all that time with Harold

He keeps insisting
That I don't have to be there
When he does my taxes

'But Harold,' I say, 'Don't you want to know where I got the money for that villa in Honduras?'

Then we get to talking
Well, I talk--he listens

Harold is such a good listener
He just needs to learn to relax
The poor man's going to have a heart attack one of these days

'Harold,' I say, 'It's just money. It's just paper. Green paper. Green paper that can get you an ice cream cone or half of Fiji! It's nothing to make you worry!'

But he doesn't listen
He just keeps plugging numbers
Into that adorable little calculator

One day I'll tell him how I feel
But until then
Sabotaging my finances
Is all I'm capable of

But hey, what's the point of being rich
If you can't have a little fun
With the one you love?