by Rick Young | Nov 15, 2021 | Poem
Welcome to the new civil war.
It looks like chairman T has got the floor.
It’s not a filibuster, just overflowing bluster.
He’s counting on his side for a big score.
The bikers and militia are all armed,
and care no whit for those whom they have harmed.
Protestors in the street are naught to them but meat.
They see their lives as heaven-blessed and charmed.
The death toll is the new election tally.
An insurrection’s labeled as a rally.
The police won’t stop this war. They don’t care any more.
Our country might turn into one death valley.
We’ve now become the disunited states.
The rich have bad intentions on their plates.
There can be no true friends until this madness ends.
Meanwhile the bodies are piled up in crates.
by Rick Young | Oct 31, 2021 | Poem
Electricity. What a cool invention.
We used to have to heat by fire,
torchlight for attention.
Now we only flip a switch
and on and off goes power.
No more need of gaslit sconces
in the evening hour.
First came lights and then came stoves
and now, electric car. Uses multiply until
we’ve found we’ve come too far.
Destroying our ecology
was what we didn’t factor.
It turned out electricity’s not cool,
but a bad actor.
We must cut back. The sense we lack
has got us in a pickle.
The flood of watts has sealed our lots.
Must cut back to a trickle.
Pump up your solar and wind forces.
Nature can sustain.
There have to be some better courses.
Greta will explain.
by Rick Young | Oct 19, 2021 | Poem
Each birthday after seventy’s
like going over par.
The putts you dropped now roll aside.
Your drive does not go far.
The layups that were breakaways
since days when you were small
are now chased down by faster men.
You often eat the ball.
The hanging dinger you just hit
dies on the warning track.
You know you need some sit-ups,
but they always hurt your back.
A well-paced walk around the block
would surely do you good.
But your aching legs now creak
as if they’re made of wood.
Your life is on the champs tour now.
You play from shorter tees.
Nine holes instead of eighteen
will go easy on your knees.
And if you do at this age
entertain a sporting jag,
please, please, say no to football.
That’s the time for your white flag.
by Rick Young | Oct 14, 2021 | Poem
DDE ruled the land of the free.
He was born October fourteenth,
like George Floyd.
He helped win a world war,
had a decent golfing score,
so, it was Ike and Tricky Dick,
into the void.
Dick got nixed by JFK.
That was not to be the way.
He was the first of the big three
eliminated. How that grated.
LBJ chose not to run.
Who knows who held that big gun.
Dick got picked and then went after
those he hated.
When he finally got caught,
doing things he shouldn’t ought,
Ford stepped in, but he was
very lowly rated.
Jimmy Carter had some heart.
They attacked him from the start.
Ronnie snuck in underhanded.
Decency was then disbanded.
GHW came next,
straight out of CIA’s text.
Bounced by Bill for oil war,
Sonny George evened that score,
cheating out the real Al Gore.
Then eight years of Hope, Barack.
But good times ran out of stock.
In came DT for years four
feeling like more than a score.
After him, there’s nothing more.
Sad Joe, scratching at the door.
Parties broken, unclass war.
Climate just one crash in store.
Flat earth, flat line,
flat dash to the void.
Black lives. White lives,
it don’t matter.
Remember George Floyd.
by Rick Young | Oct 11, 2021 | Poem
Mickey D’s not clownin’ any more.
Ronald’s been laid off, and is he sore!
His giant red hair wasn’t meant to scare,
but frightened little children to their core.
Killer clown with trail of beef behind:
hard to clear that from a youngster’s mind.
Kids know cow feed counts in climate change
and realize that Ronald’s not so kind.
It didn’t help he wore those blood red shoes,
his nose deep crimson as if fueled by booze.
He smells like burgers still, enough to make one ill.
A meat clown, as they say, is born to lose.
