[With apologies to Edgar Allan Poe]

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over forms and income queries -- volumes of taxation lore.
The day of reckoning was looming, penalties and late fees blooming.
Tax time always seems so gloomy -- can't I put it off once more?

From a sound my hound did flee; a cell phone buzzing mightily --
On the line my CPA breathlessly reminding me.
"All that dough that you did make, the IRS awaits its take.

For each tick that your stocks did rake, a tidy sum is yours no more.
Ten ninety nines, W-fours, W-twos, tax loss selling, write-offs, too.
The Fed and state cry for their due -- more time is needed for this chore!"
(For this call, I'll shell out more.)

While I listened, nearly tearing -- more addendums I was fearing,
every decimal a-rearing dollar signs on my tax form.
Pass the phone, "Amway? I'm yours!"
I can sell stuff door-to-door.

Where to find a good deduction... can I write off liposuction?
All my funds bent on destruction, N-A-Vs down to the floor.
My accountant comes from Cendant. He says Fido's a dependent.
He would make a fine defendant, should this come to something more.

Then before me came a vision -- tall and striped and with a mission
In a moment out of fiction, the man appeared -- The Man! -- was fore.
"The due date passed in days of yore.
Uncle Sam is keeping score."
Said pallid giant -- six feet four.
Quoth the tax man, "Pay me more."

All of my procrastination turned to instant resignation,
At the obvious suggestion that I could postpone no more.
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer
"Foul!" said I. "I need a respite -- from this governed form of despot!"
Quoth the tax man, "Pay me more."

"I'll do the math -- though not my suit -- pay up from my labor's fruit
Skip the lines I'm told are moot, an IRA I'll fund once more."
Quoth the tax man, "Pay me more."

With a click -- the whir of Quicken -- numbers ticked, my stomach sickened
In a blink the screen did flicker, in a flash forms did outpour
To the state, I owed a song. And from the gov'ment... something's wrong.
Nine hundred back? Look hard and long. "Surely, sir, I must owe more."
"Surely, sir, I must owe more."

He stood before my eyes cast down, then sotto voce he did sound
"'Tis sad that my job so confounds -- that you should give the run-around
You get a refund this time 'round." I found his judgment rather sound.
As he walked into the night, I thanked him for that check, all right.
"Next year," cried he, "you'll pay me more!"
Quoth the tax man, ever more.

Dayana ashamedly admits that she had to file for several extensions this year, before discovering that she actually was going to get money back. It's just a strange coincidence that her dog is named Poe.

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