His daddy was an Irishman who fled his native land His mother was a Russian gal of similar descent He lived up in hills, far from the reds or black and tans His nose to the grindstone, working with his hands One day some taxmen came to take that man away Because he had a muffler left from the olden days It kept his rifle muffled since 1928, so he could hear Clearly the words his children say The taxmen weren't listening, they told him: "five to ten" For he was a dangerous felon for lack of a single tax stamp The taxmen had no pity, they were trying to meet their plan For imprisoning all who weren't properly shackled men His mother was long gone by then and so was his dad His children lived in other states far from his little farm He though about the next decade spent in a prison cell Decided, on the balance, he'd rather just be dead He has no weapon that they could see, apart from his two old hands But years of labor had made him hard, stronger than most men He strangled one behid the van, hidden from others' sight Then he had a gun and he had a plan which trumped all their plans Before the light of that day had waned, he got all of his guests And vultures had feasted quite well, indeed, on fresh revenuer flesh And he left his home, escaping again, to where I cannot tell A testament to the notion that free men cannot be suppressed