The Mystery Of Mister Smith

 For supper we had curried tripe.

I washed the dishes, wound the clock;
Then for awhile I smoked my pipe -
Puff! Puff! We had no word of talk.

The Misses sewed - a sober pair;
Says I at last: "I need some air.
"

A don't know why I acted so;
I had no thought, no plot, no plan.

I did not really mean to go -
I'm such a docile little man;
But suddenly I felt that I
Must change my life or I would die.


A sign I saw: A ROOM TO LET.

It had a musty, dusty smell;
It gloated gloom, it growled and yet
Somehow I felt I liked it well.

I paid the rent a month ahead:
That night I smoked my pipe in bed.


From out my world I disappeared;
My walk and talk changed over-night.

I bought black glasses, grew a beard -
Abysmally I dropped from sight;
Old Tax Collector, Mister Smith
Became a memory, a myth.


I see my wife in widow's weeds;
She's gained in weight since I have gone.

My pension serves her modest needs,
She keeps the old apartment on;
And living just a block away
I meet her nearly every day.


I hope she doesn't mourn too much;
She has a sad and worried look.

One day we passed and chanced to touch,
But as with sudden fear I shook,
So blankly in my face she peered,
I had to chuckle in my beard.


Oh, comfort is a blessed thing,
But forty years of it I had.

I never drank the wine of Spring,
No moon has ever made me mad.

I never clutched the skirts of Chance
Nor daftly dallied with Romance.


And that is why I seek to save
My soul before it is too late,
To put between me and the grave
A few years of fantastic fate:
I've won to happiness because
I've killed the man that once I was.


I've murdered Income Taxer Smith,
And now I'm Johnny Jones to you.

I have no home, no kin, no kith,
I do the things I want to do.

No matter though I've not a friend,
I've won to freedom in the end.


Bohemian born, I guess, was I;
And should my wife her widowhood
By wedlock end I will not sigh,
But pack my grip and go for good,
To live in lands where laws are lax,
And innocent of Income Tax.

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