by Rick Young | Oct 22, 2020 | Poem
If they turn on his mute button,
Trump might take to wire cuttin’.
He’ll shout over poor hoarse Joe,
echoing his, “No! No! No!”
In two minutes silent time,
just imagine what he’ll mime:
Hunter Biden with crack whores,
Sleepy Joe’s nuclear wars.
And perhaps he will have signs,
hold them up between Joe’s lines,
like: “Antifa Founding Member,”
and “He’ll be dead by December.”
Trump will do his current dances,
causing comas and fear trances.
Even with their covid spacing,
Trump might start his feral pacing.
So, to mute, or not to mute.
With Trump, all precaution’s moot.
He will not accept restraint.
Mister play-by- rules, he ain’t.
There’s a way to stop him seething.
Treat the man as if he’s teething.
One thing only stops this liar:
KFC sauce pacifier.
by Rick Young | Oct 21, 2020 | Poem
Who’s that lefty on the hill?
He can really move that pill.
How’s he make it do that shit?
Cuts the ball or uses spit.
Throws a foot short of the rubber.
Ball’s so juiced it could be flubber.
He could stay out all night drinking.
Just mean his curve will be sinking.
One of the Yanks’ all-time kings.
Left hand won six Series rings.
He’s up in heaven now with Mick,
in their pinstriped golf cart.
And when the clubhouse bar opens,
they’ll be there from the start.
by Rick Young | Oct 20, 2020 | Poem
When I was a boy, around eight, nine and ten,
I had a good imagination, but just one good friend.
And he, my friend, was Mickey Mantle, needed dad menage,
a summertime mirage at my side, out against the garage.
My grip, exact upon the small bat handle,
I’d run inside up steps in his limp gait.
I’d hit and field and throw just like the Mick,
trot bases, head down, never celebrate.
I turned my toothy grin into a reticent half smile,
sometimes imagined pain in both my shins.
I tried an Oklahoma drawl. That dropped in a short while.
I worshipped all my icons, photos, baseball cards and pins.
It’s hard to think a lone white boy in times of Eisenhower
could be confused and even fearful of the noontime sirens,
whose dreams of fireworks often turned to nuclear shower.
A boy must best adapt to his environs.
And, so, I owe a vote of thanks to my fave athlete,
who got me out of my white house, if not out on the street.
Mick dispelled the theory I could not play well with others.
I see him now not as a father; more like we were brothers.
by Rick Young | Oct 19, 2020 | Song
People get wise, this October surprise
is happening before our eyes.
Nothing you see is certain.
It’s a science fiction curtain.
It’s reality built out of schemes and lies.
Atlas, Barr the door, knock the speaker to the floor.
Call Proud boys on the phone. I’ll be in the vault, alone.
Do not dare open the door, unless you’ve snuck in a whore.
When I come out, the New Age will be Stone.
by Rick Young | Oct 19, 2020 | Poem
The cockroaches have dirt on him.
He’s just part of their scam.
He’s not of this earth, you see.
He is an insect man.
More powerful than Ant Man,
more popular than Beatles,
he drives the Covid Killer Train.
He’s king of dirty needles.
Another daft from t.v. land
to shout death’s throaty call.
Soon there will be enough corpses
to finish up the wall.
They’re all in plastic cases,
piled up somewhere in the west.
They say that Atlas lives in one.
The food in there’s the best.
