My wife and I did a quick calculation the other weekend to see how we'd be affected by the income tax changes.

As we're in the low-earning bracket, we anticipated being worse off by the scrapping of the 10-pence band.

But the discovery that we would actually be £147 a year the poorer really did come as a nasty surprise.

Last month's promised "concessions", which seem to have placated most Labour MPs, will not help us one bit.

Add this national tax hike to the local council tax increase and the sharp rise in food, fuel, prescription and other prices and you can understand why we're unhappy.

Perhaps we can sum it up better in a poem aimed squarely at Number 10:

It's time to go, Dear Gordon,

You've lost the flamin' plot,

The Blair years were disastrous,

But your 'medicine' tops the lot.

You've sold our precious gold reserves,

Now credit's up the creek,

Our belts are being tightened,

(Of) cash crises, we all speak.

Baghdad, Kabul and Mosul,

The wars you cannot win,

And they're getting ever costlier,

In lives, in sweat and 'spin'.

You axed the lowest tax rate,

(in a Budget con, for sure),

Then moved a little up the street,

From 11 to 10 – next door.

Your neighbour, Mr Darling,

Isn't helping us one bit,

His cunning tax U-turn retreat's

Enough to make us spit.

Did I mention Boris,

The man who kicked out Ken?

And what about the council losses

The worst since way back when?

They're after you, Dear Gordon,

Back-benchers, one and all,

New Labour's for the carpet,

It's heading for a fall.

So do us all a favour, then,

It's time you headed north,

Take back that jaw to Scotland, chum,

And drop it in the Forth.

Steve Anderson

Sands Lane

Holme-on-Spalding Moor