by Rick Young | Nov 9, 2020 | Poem
Vote counters are getting death threats.
Trump people don’t like mathematics.
Besides, their king says he would bet
they’re rapists and drug addicts.
“A boy who dotes on numbers,
like a girl who plays with guns,
just cannot be familiar with
the way this country runs.”
And so his people wait outside,
and most inside are nervous.
“I’ve not seen so many guns
since I was in the service.”
The crownless king plays golf and snarls,
makes claims he is the winner.
He wants to see a recount
before he sits down to dinner.
He’ll pout and whine on every day
that’s left in this dread year.
He’ll replay his balcony scene
in hopes that folks will cheer.
He’ll call on Ted Cruz, Lindsey Graham,
all his best butt lickers.
We will know it’s near the end
when Guilliani flickers.
On January twenty first,
come hell or muddy water.
We’ll see them walk away, bags packed,
two whacked sons and a daughter.
And lastly, sobbing, head down,
shuffling and shoulders slumped,
will exit exiled king, with queen,
to shouts’ “You’ve just been TRUMPED !”
by Rick Young | Nov 7, 2020 | Story
I wish Sleepy Joe the best.
Be assured I hid a pest
somewhere in the office walls
which responds to twitter calls.
You’d better change the old nuke code,
in case I get in launching mode.
It only takes small ammo fare
to destroy all Delaware.
You do love trains, Old Sleepy Joe.
So I’ll bomb tracks before I go.
I’ll stir up so damned much trouble,
you’ll plead for Obama’s bubble.
Moscow Mitch will have your ass.
And not one Senate bill will pass.
Proud Boys in each Dem big city,
get your guns. This won’t be pretty.
I held back one airborne plague.
They say my effort was vague.
Yes, there’s something up my sleeve.
I’ve got germs you won’t believe.
Here’s a tube marked ‘Red Death Core’
I’ll release in Baltimore.
Philly, which sure disappointed,
will with ‘kill flu’ be anointed.
Of my last act I’ll now boast:
“Giant Earthquake Ends West Coast!”
Libs will scream, “No More! No More!”
And I’ll return in twenty-four.
by Rick Young | Nov 6, 2020 | Poem
And here comes Pennsylvania rounding the far turn,
spurred on by her buoyant rider, Li’l Ben FX, passing now,
on the outside, Arizona, ridden by John McCain’s ghost,
and Georgia, with the devil in the saddle, and Nevada,
which many voters thought had a lock on second place.
Lastly, falling back on the rail is North Carolina, whose rider,
Thom Tillis, looks like he might better appreciate the ACA
when this horse race is over. His steed looks extremely spent.
by Rick Young | Nov 5, 2020 | Poem
Arizona, I hope Diamondbacks next year will win it all.
Nevada, may your gambling state long reign.
As I watched in horror states turn red and drop the ball,
I wondered at four more years spent in pain.
Florida looked good at first, then came Miami Dade.
Texas held some mild surprises, then blue got waylaid.
Georgia, thanks to Stacey Abrams, held out early hope.
So did Carolina, for a while, then, later, nope.
Minnie, Michi, Wiscy, Illi built their midwest wall.
Only problem there: it looked like Penny just might fall.
Then, up stepped Arizona, and it opened a new lane.
It turned a red state blue in memory of John McCain.
And then there came Nevada, with its memories of shooting.
A state that suffered his four years stepped up to do the booting.
And so, a blue line runs from Texas border to Seattle,
leaving Trump’s mouthpieces crying foul about the battle.
“We will win Pennsylvania,” screams Eric, the dumber son.
That’s great, blockhead; it means your daddy only lost by one.
It’s still not quite official. We await the checkered flag.
But that’s soon due. The winning blue votes linger in the bag.
by Rick Young | Nov 3, 2020 | Poem
I’ve got a lot in common with my cat.
It’s more than we’re both getting old and fat.
Now he sleeps with my wife as I go about my life,
caught in a nowhere betwixt this and that.
While oftentimes we slouch, entangled on the couch,
there are times we don’t engage for hours.
He doesn’t like the rain, or my arthritis pain.
Neither one of us think much of baths or showers.
I sweep his hair off the floor
once a month and not much more.
All the clothing in the house looks like angora.
With the white hair on our faces,
we go many the same places.
He’s my fave of all fauna and flora.
