Congressman Charley Rangle, D-NY, is in the news again, the House Ethics committee looking into some shenanigans having to do with cheating on his taxes and other assorted stuff politicians always take for granted that they don’t have to do. Charley explained his failure to pay his taxes on his being unable to understand the tax code, which is mildly humorous, since Congressman Rangel chairs the powerful House committee that writes the tax rules for the rest of us. Charley Rangle has always, to my mind, been one of the good guys, not a hater like some of his Democrat colleagues, but more interested in the perks associated with being a powerful politician. But now the sheriff is after him, including the High Sheriff. President Obama has suggested rather forcefully that Charley resign, since he would no doubt be an impediment to the Dems keeping the House this November. In addition to the president, many of his colleagues have urged him to resign, but Charley just grins and says he hasn’t done anything wrong, and in his mind, he hasn’t. Yes, the sheriff is after him. There’s a big Wanted Dead Or Alive poster in the sheriff’s office, with Charley’s picture on it.

 

 

The sheriff moseyed up the street

Boots kicking up the sand

The Wanted poster of the cheat

Gripped firmly in his hand

He’d seen that face ride into town

And head for the saloon

A smiling face, a tiny frown

The time was just high noon

A-past the swinging doors he strode

His six-gun at his hip

A-past the horse the stranger rode

Still sweaty from the trip

He saw his quarry in the dark

A-standin’ at the bar

His voice commanded in a bark

Just stand right where you are!

I’ve come here to arrest you, sir

For cheating on your taxes

You’ll spend a goodly time in stir

Depending what the max is

The man looked up and smiled a smile

Said you know who I am?

It’s well for you I do not rile

Or you’d be in a jam

For I’m beloved Congressman

Chuck Rangle from New York

And I’m the guy who writes the plan

For guys like you who work

Must follow under pain of law

The penalties are clear

No matter how quick is your draw

You’ll serve at least a year

But none of this applies to me

Because, son, I’m your better

So you can not arrest me, see

But you can write me a letter

With that he put his shot glass down

And climbed upon his horsey

And headed north for New York town

Though he’d have to cross New Jorsey