by Rick Young | Aug 24, 2020 | Poem
We’re losing Kellyanne
because her teens are acting out.
Their father hates their mother’s boss
is what it’s all about.
With parents both sides of the fence,
home life had gotten strange.
Mommy works for evil.
Dad can’t make her change.
Now they’re taking time off,
both sides, for the kids,
maybe save the household whole
from going off the skids.
Some will miss her lying face
and straw-like yellow hair.
Some will miss his commentary.
Nothing did he spare.
She has done her damage,
joined the pantheon of hate.
He’s helped make some anti ads
which, frankly, have been great.
Now they’re stuck with their genetics,
hateful genes times four.
And we’ll all be better off
with seeing them no more.
by Rick Young | Aug 22, 2020 | Poem
Dabbled in flat earth a bit,
obsessed now by horizon.
Ted Cruz and red shoes a hit.
It’s all on Verizon.
Aliens and reptile men
do not vote by mail.
Take the ink, just not the pen.
Society’s a jail.
Next week we’ll see Repo wit,
akin to torture porn.
X streamed violence. scary shit,
nightly, into morn.
Into mourning’s where we should go,
grieving for our nation.
If you should stumble on their show,
quickly, change the station.
by Rick Young | Aug 19, 2020 | Poem
Just when you thought insanity
could not go up a notch,
he criticized Michelle for shorting
death count on his watch.
“It’s tape delay, so I must say
I’ve killed so many more.
In this past week, I reached my peak.
It’s a tremendous score.
Quite soon two-hundred thousand
could be within my reach.
I’ll write a new Book of the Dead
for reading on the beach.
By the way, Mar-a-Lago
must be proclaimed a shrine.
And Romulus and Remus,
these two great Sons of mine,
have been named as apostles
to the best God, Money.
Ivanka’s been promoted
from Daughter up to Honey.
And Barron, I am sad to say,
has been put in a cage.
He needs to speak American
before he comes of age.
All I can say is watch me next week,
during My convention.
I’ll even have My Pillow man.
Now, what a great invention.
The crowd will be all virtual,
so there won’t be no shootin’.
And, just a hint, a secret guest.
His last name rhymes with Gluten.”
by Rick Young | Aug 18, 2020 | Poem, Posthumous Additions
The second night, without big stars,
did not go off as planned.
Bill Clinton’d been to several bars
and got quite out of hand.
He drooled on AOC’s blue dress
when they were introduced.
Come speech time, he was more a mess,
and then his brain unloosed.
“O, Chillary,” he sang, with twang,
“We must admit our sins.”
Was quickly walked off by a gang,
toward one of many bins.
John Kerry did an Irish dance
and AOC spitfired.
But all proceedings went askance
When Willie went unwired.
by Rick Young | Aug 17, 2020 | Story
They say that Jeffrey Epstein was smothered by My Pillow.
His ashes will be spread on Pedo Isle.
That’s if they find his body, last seen in Amarillo,
and probably headed southward for a while.
They say a lot of famous folks spent time at Jeff’s resort.
Word has it that shuffleboard was not the favorite sport.
Perhaps a My Pillow propped on every cabin bed
could be used to suppress screams when placed over a head.
These were small heads, must remember, outsized by My Pillow.
Go to sleep, my little beauty. Rest, my weeping willow.
