The Great American Tab
Uncle Sam has a credit card, and so do you
The nation’s got a credit card, it’s swiped from sea to shining sea,
With a balance so enormous that it needs its own ZIP code, and maybe three.
Uncle Sam says, “Treat yourself!” and then says, “Treat yourself some more,”
While the interest piles up quietly like laundry by the door.
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And the folks back home are doing it too, let’s be honest, friends:
A “quick run” into Target ends in forty-seven odds and ends.
You went in for paper towels, you left with a lamp and a plant,
A cactus shaped like a flamingo you were sure you didn’t want.
We’ve got subscriptions we forgot to cancel, nine streaming services deep,
A gym membership we’re paying for while our sneakers are asleep.
We buy the extended warranty, the upgrade, and the deluxe,
Then pay in four easy installments for a pair of fancy socks.
The coffee run’s a daily ritual, a five-dollar-a-cup spree,
“It’s only a latte!” we declare, while the math says, “Wait, that’s three
Hundred dollars every month?” but we’ve got a rewards app to chase,
And points can’t hurt, so swipe again and keep up the pace.
Meanwhile the numbers in Washington grow like a sourdough starter,
Each budget debate is a bake-off where nobody wants to be smarter.
“Cut here!” “Not there!” “Raise this!” “Not that!” and round and round it goes,
Like a family fighting over the check while the dessert menu grows.
But here’s the thing, so let’s be fair, before we shake our heads:
Both the ledger and the living room are tangled up in threads
Of wanting now and paying later, a very human art,
We’re all just fans of “buy it today,” with “worry” down the chart.
So here’s a toast with a half-priced drink (the happy hour kind):
May your budget balance, your balance shrink, and your savings be refined.
And if all else fails, we’ll cross our fingers, hope for sunshine, and
Keep the cactus flamingo. He’s the only thing that’s paid for. (Grand.)
