by Rick Young | Sep 7, 2020 | Poem
On Labor Day we celebrate how our great country works.
The rich pay us to kill ourselves and then treat us like jerks.
We celebrate the forty hour week, plus overtime.
They work us hard and bleed us dry. Their money is a crime.
They live in mansions inside gates and take foreign vacations.
We slave until retirement, then expect reparations.
Our medicare and social trough keep us out of the street.
We have enough to clothe ourselves and food that we can eat.
Our biggest entertainment is a cheap beer at the bar,
while they are eating pheasant, good champagne and caviar.
Sometimes on the weekend we’ll drive to the nearest beach.
To a well-off owner, there is no place out of reach.
Cannes and St. Tropez are just a couple destinations.
Workers have a change jar to save money for gas stations.
First class flights and Broadway nights are out of reach for most.
For the elite, it’s meet and greet, anywhere, coast to coast.
And, when we die, we hope to have resources for a stone,
maybe a cross, a sign the boss above threw us a bone.
by Rick Young | Sep 3, 2020 | Song
If you want to be nice, you could vote for me twice
while I work out my kill-the-mail scheme.
I’m the nightmare the hippies saw coming,
the anti-Amerikan dream.
I’ll blow up all racial pretensions
and continue to subvert the law.
With my planeload of dark thugs inventions,
I can drop the fake newsmaker’s jaw.
I’ll constantly name drop ANTIFA,
make suburbs sense fear in the night.
I’ll kick things around more than FIFA.
Two lies make a wrong thing seem right.
I’ll spur on my good boys with long guns
to keep any protest in hand,
tell my police whenever a perp runs,
he’s got to know that’s his last stand.
I’m turning all purloined mail cases
into immigrant child B & B’s.
First we must spray mace in their faces,
to make sure that they don’t have fleas.
All disappeared looters in Dem towns
will not be found on voter rolls.
We’ve long ago disposed of those clowns.
They’ve been sold as fishermen’s trolls.
I can’t wait to get back at congress.
In my second term they will die.
I will torture the ones who were wrongest,
and record, like George Floyd, when they cry.
For those who think I’ll be outvoted,
I guess you don’t know me too well.
You will be from life rolls demoted
and sentenced to non-random hell.
(CHORUS)
My next inauguration will be the best, of course.
Any citizen not there risks Homeland Defense Force.
They’ll be bred as worker bees and caged next to the Wall.
I can’t believe you peasants didn’t sense this in the fall.
by Rick Young | Sep 2, 2020 | Poem
Thugs on a plane can be a drain
on a protestor’s resources.
So, we’re going green in a new riot scene,
it’s Protestors on Horses.
Imagine those imported goons
when you rear up and charge.
They’ll run and hide in the saloons,
and you’ll be livin’ large.
Yes, Protestors on Horses,
the new wave in social clashing.
When the right outsources,
we will send our nags out gnashing.
Our Protestors on Horses
will drive the Prouds away.
And other outside forces
they will scare with their neigh neigh.
With all this crime it’s now the time
to change the country’s courses.
In spirit of the wild, wild west,
it’s Protestors on Horses.
by Rick Young | Sep 2, 2020 | Poem
Last night I lost my faith in gravity.
And, so, the moon fell from the stricken sky.
It knocked me down and I rolled like a cork
into the vast and eternal darkness.
And, now, today!
by Rick Young | Aug 28, 2020 | Poem
Laura knocked ’em dead in Louisiana,
while Trump brought ’em to life in his D.C.
Packed ’em in the garden, prisoners without pardon,
rallying politically where he’s not supposed to be.
Seated close together without face masks,
cheering at his handling of the plague,
his apostles will do what their god asks,
even when consequences are vague.
Time will tell if this planned super-spreader
shall take a toll on some two-thousand there.
And if he’s thrown some lives into the shredder,
it’s quite obvious he doesn’t care.
Four long nights of scare tactics are over.
One would need a scorebook for his lies.
Every time he sniffs, here come a few more stiffs.
At least Don Junior had tears in his eyes.
And, speaking of his son’s cocaine addiction,
and his FOX girlfriend’s vocal volume surge,
in this damned family is there no restriction?
Can anyone just act on any urge?
It’s good that both Tiffany and Eric
haven’t got the brains to be a danger.
Ivanka is turning to Bo Derek.
Barron keeps on starin’, ever stranger.
Melania showed reading skills improved.
Was her green-screen dress an inside joke?
She said all the right things, as behooved.
Sparkling, maybe she, too, ‘s on coke.
So, we go back to our world of terror,
isolated, indoors and afraid.
Watching this convention was an error.
Chalk it up to time badly mislaid.
