by Rick Young | Dec 29, 2020 | Poem
Well, at least we won the big one.
Nothing Trump can do to spoil it.
But, unless we get those Georgia seats,
we’ll still be in the toilet.
Mitch will freeze the senate
with his special turtle drool.
With the old dictator gone,
he’s the essential tool.
It’s right there in his job description,
next to kissing ass.
He will not hear or help a thing.
He’s like the talking bass.
And, like the turtle, he’ll plod on
without the orange hare.
To make the damned Dems impotent
is his eternal care.
With Grand Rand Paul and Not Tom Cruz,
he’ll snuff out opposition.
Right judges and rich tax breaks,
even after the transition,
will still be goals and FOX News trolls
will resume with their lies.
We won, but if we lose those seats,
it’s all moot exercise.
by Rick Young | Dec 25, 2020 | Poem
Come get your pardon,
available down at the Rose Garden,
redecorated, because the other way
my wife hated.
Your pardon costs less
than did changing this mess.
It’s not just us.
We’ve got expenses.
And then again there’s also the two Pences.
Here I am, fighting off libels.
All they do’s collect rare bibles.
Don’t forget Ivanka’s needs,
keeping Jared wrapped in tweeds.
DJTJ is another.
Needs his blow, unlike his brother.
Eric’s simple, and it shows.
Feed him, clean him, change his clothes.
Barron’s still a mystery.
Is he related to me?
Pardons ! Pardons ! Ink’s still wet.
If you haven’t got one yet,
step right up, you’re wasting time.
I’ll erase your every crime.
Buy one that’s before the fact.
Then, when you’re caught in the act,
you can wave it in their face.
Pardon ! Pardon ! Saving grace.
Come on down. See ‘Crazy Don.’
Orange pardon light is on.
You can get out of jail, free.
You just need to favor me.
by Rick Young | Dec 23, 2020 | Poem
The Don must cross the Rubicon,
as mandated by QAnon.
The act would be a right wing pleaser,
if he went all Julius Caesar.
General Flynn is all in favor.
Martial law’s his favorite flavor.
Thirty days he’s still in power,
countdown ticking by the hour.
He could be the best dictator
on this side of the equator.
Things might become a bit hairy
concerning the military.
In a clampdown, things get tough.
He may not have ‘friends’ enough.
If things go beyond the pale,
enablers might land in jail.
Pardons might not go too well
if Trump, too, is in a cell.
One great fantasy awaits:
Orange, making license plates.
by Rick Young | Dec 21, 2020 | Poem
When General Flynn talks martial law,
Trump thinks about Matt Dillon.
In every Gunsmoke that he saw,
there always was some killin’.
His chance to shoot folks on the street
might be around the corner.
He could blast everyone he’d meet,
especially a foreigner.
A presidential killing spree
would not be that uncommon.
His Covid total’s history.
Not too bad for a Brahmin.
He could leave half the country dead,
reprieving his supporters.
It wouldn’t bother his big head.
He follows his own orders.
With his Poor Boys army,
he’d wreak havoc on the left.
They’re so smart and smarmy
that he wouldn’t be bereft.
Once the smoke has settled down,
he’ll make up his new rules.
His brand new title, ‘Killer Clown,”
should appease all the fools.
One day, he’ll change the country’s name.
It shall become Trump Land.
When history becomes a game,
he wants to have the brand.
by Rick Young | Dec 18, 2020 | Poem
T’was a long and twisted road,
knowing not what it forebode.
Colbert wept election eve.
Outcome we could not conceive.
Hillary was the wrong choice,
shady past and grating voice.
Still, who thought the Don could win,
light of hair and weak of chin.
When he rode that escalator,
people laughed, said, “See you later.”
Who knew then that this great land
was half desperado band.
Quickly, he put all his cronies
into jobs where they were phonies.
First step, tax cuts for the rich.
Fired anyone who’d snitch.
Nixed good laws and loved dictators.
Border moat with alligators?
Spent three years building a wall
that does us no good at all.
Beat impeachment, thanks to Mitch.
People said he’s Moscow’s bitch.
Embraced those who scream “White Power,”
played golf, moved south from Trump Tower.
Told lies at a record clip.
No truth fell from his heir lip.
Then, when true crisis arose,
he played golf and thumbed his nose.
Half a million here might die
because of his viral lie.
When he lost the big election,
thought Supremes would be protection.
With no concept of the truth,
he now rivals John Wilkes Booth.
Tried to kill democracy,
sold out, sea to shining sea.
Now he claims he will not leave,
’cause the vote he won’t believe.
Streams of fake and fraud all day.
Devil Trump, just go away.
Residents of Mar-a-Lago
want him to live in Chicago.
Maybe he’ll just ride the rail.
On the lam, he could beat jail.
Present hope is we’ll survive
the great wreck of forty-five.
Follow Joe, who knows the score.
Next big test in twenty-four.
