by Rick Young | Jan 7, 2021 | Poem
Laying siege the Capitol was such a ratings boon,
new episodes will start as early as next Monday noon.
So many patriotic folks thought the first show such fun,
next time, to pump the drama, everyone will have a gun.
And, better yet, to whet the appetite and set a mood,
the rioters will be costumed, a la that viking dude.
And more spray paint, as graphics are essential to good crime.
A metal music soundtrack just might be pumped in next time.
Perhaps a riot cheering squad could liven up the mix,
and programs, listing insurrection stats and favorite tricks.
A weekly riot guest star could add flavor to the scene.
The ratings would just soar to watch Kenosha’s killer teen.
And, one more thing, the police should act much more like Keystone Kops.
With shoe soles lathered up with grease, there’d be more belly flops.
If produced right, these battle shows will be the new sensation.
Quite soon, they’ll be on every night. Perhaps on every station.
by Rick Young | Jan 5, 2021 | Poem
Trump is in his bunker, not the one in Mar-a-Lago.
He wants to turn the D.C. streets to ’68 Chicago.
He doesn’t have a cruel J.Edgar Hoover by his side.
He lost that when Bill Barr said ‘that’s enough,’ and went to hide.
His posse has been culled to the most sycophantic crew.
With Atlas shrugged and Rudy bugged, he’s down to General Q.
Mike Flynn accepted pardon. The rose garden is his base.
He’ll organize a pod of Proud Boys to defend the place.
His fervid plan to organize a military coup
has been shot down; the man’s a clown. There’s nothing he can do.
But Trump’s implored his fiercest fans to come to town with guns.
The man may have a tiny brain, but has balls by the tons.
He’ll organize a strike force of hillbilly racist men.
As far as bad ideas go, it’s got to be a ten.
They’ll roam D.C., eccentrically, in flag-strewn pickup trucks.
Green Mountain boys they’re not, just a sad bunch of stupid fucks.
And, when the smoke has cleared, alas, in the forty-five purge,
a new America, will, after four long years emerge.
by Rick Young | Jan 5, 2021 | Poem
They’re finding missing ballots everywhere.
Reports say one was pulled out of his hair.
Ballot bags in rivers and burned in hollow trees.
Thousands more in nursing homes, many marked by sneeze.
Ballots filling farm silos and soaked in swimming pools.
Did they think he’d overlook this treason? Are they fools?
Ballots stuffed between each slat in his defensive fence.
Rumor has it some were found in drawers of Mrs. Pence.
Ballots in a dumpster behind favored KFC.
Only found because he went outside to take a pee.
Of course each ballot saved amazingly contained his name.
No doubt, if they’re authentic, they will surely change the game.
All he needs to do is have these found votes validated.
But, seems he’s hidden them so well, they cannot be located.
by Rick Young | Jan 4, 2021 | Poem
He’s wired the White House to explode.
Just push a button once he’s on the road.
He’s broken every law, in hock up to his jaw.
He might as well go all-in crazy mode.
There’ve been some other madmen in his place.
But others had, at least, a saving grace.
Nixon knew to quit. Ronnie lost his shit.
They’ll have to bring this mother down with mace.
His name will be synonymous
with all things dark and ominous.
His overwhelming downfall will be greed.
The legend of his crimes
will bleed to nursery rhymes.
He’ll be known as America’s bad seed.
by Rick Young | Dec 31, 2020 | Poem
This new year’s eve, there’s no reprieve
from ghosts of old years past.
The orange pall which cloaked us all
now seems that it will last.
It needs another twenty days
to dissipate its frisson,
and then another several months
to put that pall in prison.
There’ll be no horns or party hats
until inauguration.
But, once you hear that bible slam,
begin the celebration.
So what if our new year starts off
with twenty days in hock.
We need time to recuperate
from four years spent in shock.
So, give the first two weeks
of twenty-one to forty-five.
And celebrate the fact
that we survived his reign alive.
Should he return in twenty-four,
he’ll be laughed off the stage.
His tired act begs no encore.
It’s simply old-age rage.
Besides, if he has any thoughts
of returning a savior,
he’ll have to somehow work in
four years off for good behavior.
