by Rick Young | Jul 23, 2020 | Poem
“Person, woman, man, camera, t.v.”
“That’s the way to live successfully.”
How do I know? My big test told me so.
What do I know? The law tells me gung ho.
I’ve got the brain to take down all these anarchists and thugs.
It seems I’m coping better with my new dementia drugs.
I realize now my tie should not be hanging to my knees.
I wipe my nose with my face mask most every time I sneeze.
I’m getting COVID-tested at least several times a week.
At least that’s what they tell me when they stick things up my beak.
They say they don’t know how I keep all these things in my head.
I play them back whenever I get off in Lincoln’s bed.
When at the resolute desk, I’m the absolute king shit.
If I should go, they’ll find my name carved several times in it.
This two-term thing has a bad ring. I’ll sign in an extension.
My royal family says elections suck, pay no attention.
Like F.D.R., I’ll be a czar, borne everywhere on litters.
I’ll bring back sports and execute the kneelers and the quitters.
Our country will ally with Russia, with parades and pomp.
It’s my great dream to turn the whole damned world into the swamp.
by Rick Young | Jul 22, 2020 | Poem
Trump’s occupying forces, coming to your city soon.
This is not America, but dark side of the moon.
They’re headed to Chicago, noted home of the “Black Sox.”
His alternative police are way, way outside the box.
Like Tricky Dick, this sicko’s banking on some voters’ fear.
Only he can stop the armageddon that draws near.
Christians who contend coronavirus is a hoax
believe his contention that protesters are bad folks.
He’ll stoke fires to inspire his base into furor,
rage against big cities where the residents are poorer,
then send his camo army to put insurrection down.
Be aware. It’s not a scare. They’re coming to your town.
by Rick Young | Jul 21, 2020 | Poem
O, welcome back, corona virus briefing,
where T can practice all his oral queefing.
He’ll say again that it will disappear.
And to each question, he’ll turn a blind ear.
He’ll say again tests make the numbers rise,
just like a second-grader in disguise.
When queried if he now will wear a mask,
he’ll answer, “Biden? Thought you’d never ask.”
He’ll talk about his statues and his forts with rebel names.
He’ll skew pandemic numbers and play all his lying games.
Then, bragging how he’ll clear the streets of all the anarchists,
he’ll call enabling Kayleigh who will swoop in with fake lists.
Of course, he’ll denigrate Doc Fauci, that’s his favorite ploy.
And to the COVID vessel, he’ll shrug and say, “Ship ahoy!”
A team of dream fact checkers could not knock him off his horse.
It’s obvious this devil will let virus run its course.
by Rick Young | Jul 20, 2020 | Song
“I will eventually be right.”
Our population might be slight.
Then I can reign them in real tight.
Which is the purpose of my fight.
I’d like to get it down to two percent.
I think that’s what the founding fathers meant.
We’ll build a wall of dead, then pour cement.
To think that people said I was hell-bent!
The midlands decorated with mass graves.
The country back again to rich and slaves.
This is how stable genius behaves.
And what the wise illuminati craves.
We’ll make a profit from the skin compost.
Perhaps a restaurant where I’m the host.
I’d like to party with Jeff Epstein’s ghost.
He was a dude who loved his kids the most.
We’ll hold a party for the sheiks and kings.
They’ll all drink absinthe as prince Yeezy sings.
He’ll sing that tune about what virus brings.
I swear the dude is wearing twelve gold rings.
We’ll have a time of mourning for the dead.
I will repeat some shit that’s in my head.
Maybe I’ll take my daughter queen to bed.
When I shot Jared, that boy really bled.
The new America renamed Trump Land.
I’ll march the street leading an oompah band.
They’ll want to shake my surgically large hand.
My new protector will be Saint Paul, Rand.
Boss Mitch McConnell will help shape the nation.
He’d like to turn it into one plantation.
If they are good, the help may earn vacation.
And they will surely love our work song station.
There’ll be no army ’cause there’ll be no war.
I’ll be dictators’ lover and their whore.
When we’ve divided what we’re looking for.
Our worldwide anthem will be “Steal, Shoot, Score!”
For those who voted my ass into power.
I’m sorry that you’re mostly dead this hour.
I do hope you enjoyed the rocket shower.
Filmed home invasions where I watched you cower.
I like Miami, but New York I love.
Cherish the moment when I hung the gov.
And, then, my holiday, the Mass Grave Shove.
Once weekly, paupers can still kiss my glove.
by Rick Young | Jul 19, 2020 | Poem
Trump’s secret federal task force is just ‘helping Portland out.’
To stop the anarchists will take an army posse’s clout.
Just faceless men in camo reigning in peaceful protesters,
a helping hand to boost Oregon’s statues and investors.
The mayor doesn’t want them there, they’re only escalating.
But, should the socialists act up, there’s plenty more troops waiting.
The unmarked vans and undisclosed locations where they’re brought
have made the scene a powder keg which no Portlander sought.
The governor as well has said she wants these troops removed.
The policing of one’s own state is not federally behooved.
The threat to our democracy is right here on display.
He’ll send his “task force” to all states who don’t do things his way.
No protester in this land, unless confirmed to violence,
needs be secreted away to insure their side’s silence.
If federal vigilantes are to roam our streets at night,
one can only think Trump sees the ‘Boogaloo’ as right.
