Death and taxes skip to the due

The modern taxman cometh more
certainly
and conveniently e-.
One meaty hand's
in the bony hand
of his forsooth saying-mate,
the other flits
freely, its unaccountably icy digits
lithely cyber-tapping
Franklin-picking
rhythms from a tipless plastic glove.
His sticky memory can serve, not love,
but the love of two
masterly forms of flim-flammable,
incorporeal
sleight. The aghastly fat
he flabbers glad
and the stripped-down he tops
toward the same childish deduction:
a pea
will evermore end happily
feathering the most luxuriantly
nested cup.