by Rick Young | Sep 26, 2020 | Story
Rotund king in gold bodysuit enters right,
tips his hair, tells a few one-liner lies, exits left,
very slowly, down a small ramp, trips, rolls offstage.
Four elderly white men in turtle suits march in, singing:
” Our king is a good man who hates bad protestors,
who’ll team up with Q to undo all molesters.
If you vote against him, you’re worse than wet worms.
Your house will soon be sprayed with pandemic germs.”
They exit, slowly, right, toward a sign that reads “SWAMP.”
Rotund king reemerges, plumps into a large gold throne.
Attorney General dances a shuffle before him in a cat suit.
He licks the milk the king has left him in a golden bowl, pauses, sings:
” Our king can’t be bothered with things like elections.
He’s too busy making his golf club selections.
There is no pandemic. It’s all an illusion.
Now I must get back to my Russian collusion.”
He huffs off in enormous cat’s feet, heads to the right.
Rotund king spray paints his face, picks up his gold phone,
punches buttons with a flourish and screams “Hello Pooty!”
Vlad the Inhaler enters from the east, bare chested, chants:
” Your king does my bidding, yes, but it’s for your protection.
There’s no way to stop him now. This is the resurrection.
Anyone who dares oppose will soon be wearing fetters.
Russia and USA merge. You just add three new letters.”
He mounts a small trojan horse and rides off tossing condoms.
Rotund king stands atilt, waving a MAGA handkerchief goodbye,
summons his family, a princess, knave, joker, handmaid and geek.
Queen Melanin struts on stage in a jacket that says, “F-Off!” and sings:
” My man loves grabbing pussies and boning porn stars.
He says he’ll be first to put women on Mars.
He told me be best and that means always looking pretty.
If I get wrinkles, he’ll send me off to anarchist city.”
She flounces offstage right to whistles and wolf calls from backstage.
Rotund king, sweating copiously, stands, dripping puddles on the boards.
He picks up a bible, holds it up, sets it afire. Repeats with the Constitution,
then, at center stage, winds a red tie about his head like a bandana, screams:
” You’ll never be rid of my golden fleece face.
When the time’s right, my kids will take my place.
Nothing you do can stop my tyranny.
Wave bye-bye now to your land of the free!”
He ties on a stars-and-stripes cape, floor-length, and shuffles off, leering.
Paramilitary ushers storm the aisles and the audience is arrested. Finis.
by Rick Young | Sep 25, 2020 | Posthumous Additions, Song
The golden lips of stimulation
have yet to caress my station
so put off the long vacation
snuggle up to isolation
beating heart media nation
awaits the next great sensation
in the voices of vexation
anarchy becomes temptation
nah nah….
more to come /evolved from failed poem to potential song
by Rick Young | Sep 25, 2020 | Poem
Universal torment is the nature of the game.
Sometimes it’s right, and then the rules just change.
What was, still is, and evermore shall be, but not the same.
And laws, like mad chess pieces, rearrange.
And since the game is run by man, then one must have the rein.
But who appoints that man is still in question.
And what if, at the helm, that man goes visibly insane?
Then who steps forward to make a suggestion?
We dig back through history and analyze commotions,
war, plague, heresy and insurrection.
We vet anger, hatred, greed and other crass emotions,
then boil them down to one big fake election.
A melting pot of irony, grief, graft and family trees
is stirred until it naturally boils over.
And that’s where torment really starts, with people on their knees,
dosed by ennui as devils play red rover.
by Rick Young | Sep 24, 2020 | List
This is not the time for rhyme or careful rumination.
Train of thought is overwrought and has just left the station.
Protests down in Louisville of course attracted violence.
Covid’s killed two hundred-thou and all we hear is silence.
President says he may not step down after election.
“Herd mentality’s” his nod to natural selection.
Climate change now threatens our land’s hazardous waste sites.
If you’re in a flood plain near one, best start booking flights.
Health care and abortion rights may soon be stripped away.
There is not one shred of good news. No poem today.
by Rick Young | Sep 23, 2020 | Poem
Biden’s going to hand his presidency to Kamala,
then hide in the oval office like it was Valhalla.
That’s the latest racist charge from our beloved leader.
It’s the kind of thing that makes a perfect FOX news feeder.
Cory Booker in the suburbs, sneaking through your yard,
stealing clothing off your line. You know that times are hard.
Watch out for Dem congressman Jeffries. First name is Hakim.
They’ll put him in charge of sleep and he’ll invade your dream.
Then there’s AOC and her squad bud Ilhan Omar.
They will tax you ’til you just have quarters in a jar.
Gays and anarchists will sway your children in their schools.
And ‘Shifty” Schiff’s swift socialism will be our new rules,
It’s all right there in front of you, just listen to the chatter.
So, don’t vote Joe. He’s got to go. He thinks that Black Lives Matter.
