by Rick Young | Feb 10, 2021 | Poem
Put him in the hot seat.
Make him tell us why
he orchestrated riot
where several had to die.
His tweets were law to followers.
His voice was their command
to march down to the capitol,
take back their ‘stolen’ land.
Under the guise of free speech,
he musters his defense.
Ask him what he’d feel
if his supporters killed Mike Pence.
And though our heartless leader
is now removed from the game,
he will persist. You get the gist.
The man has got no shame.
Impeach him once. Impeach him twice.
Just make him go away.
That pee hotel in Russia
might be a place to stay.
And if the man is given chance
to ever run again,
say goodbye to freedom.
Move away and take your kin.
by Rick Young | Feb 8, 2021 | Poem
Mole rats should be the official mascot of the ‘republican’ party,
to be sold at the gallery concession store, some in tiny shirts
with stop the steal and such rat poop as befitting. Not shitting.
Inside the dome, walking their wheels, they’ll be the envy
of the eagles, bisons, hawks, turtles and vultures in the vaunted hall.
On the wall, their posters, big teeth agape, spitting dirt. Spewing lies.
Quailanon (not Quayleanon) has become their new leader.
He is everywhere and nowhere, underground and in your seat.
Their unseeing eyes only can sense his vital presence.
And now on to the mission of recruiting apes and asses.
by Rick Young | Feb 7, 2021 | Poem
My life hours are
packed haphazardly,
flung down a tube of
inside upside-down,
then reshuffled with
unexpected stops.
And, when I’m asked to cut,
I really want to cut.
by Rick Young | Jan 31, 2021 | Poem
Feed the hungry.
Kill the rich.
Ocean’s dying.
Life’s a bitch.
Nothing matters.
Plague abounds.
We don’t matter.
Make the rounds.
Police are angry.
Looters, too.
Sometimes they don’t
know who’s who.
Polar bears now
need life vests.
We have failed
so many tests.
To escape
our own trap,
leave the tent now.
Cut the flap.
Many things
will have to change.
Our streets are
a shooting range.
If we have to
pay for peace,
scrap the weapons.
Change the lease.
It’s time we learn
to treat our land
better than
a one-night-stand.
Stand together.
That we must.
We’re the gods
we must trust.
by Rick Young | Jan 30, 2021 | Song
Klomp. Bomp.
We got the swamp.
We got left in the lurch without a perch.
And now we’re fighting back
an organized attack.
It’s hard to play defense and do research.
The slime laid on The Cap,
the cinch ’em, lynch ’em crap,
was just phase one of orange afterbirth.
There is no place to hide
with henchmen loose inside.
It’s turned the tide of weather on this earth.
While now the Flag’s a weapon
and the Guard is over steppin’,
clans may plan now their white wonder land.
Will this be world war .3? The end of history?
Let’s resurrect the “We Are The World” band!
Pop pop pah pa, mama, momma, ta tah.
