Congressman Charley Rangle, D-NY, was in the news recently, half-jokingly advising President Obama not to come to Harlem without proper ID, since to do so might lead him to being shot by a white cop, Obama being, you know, black. 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. You may recall a few months ago Charley was found to be a tax cheat, like so many Democrats, and 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. You might think being found to be a tax cheat would cause someone shame, might cause that someone to feel he could not show his face again in polite society, but you would be wrong about that, at least as it applies to Charley Rangel. He has no trouble riding into town, even though he knows the sheriff has a Wanted poster in his office with Charley’s picture on it, and words TAX CHEAT in big, black letters.

 

 

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