by Rick Young | Apr 2, 2020 | Story
Barr is seeking power now to throw us all in jail.
No trial, no charge, no length of stay and forget about bail.
He’ll play the card when times are hard we must get tough on crime.
With court systems aborted, he’ll simply hand out time.
Suspect one is just a bum, he got caught stealing Millers.
Arrest his ass! His balls are brass! And throw him in with killers.
While suspect two got in a brew about freedom of speech.
Just lock him up ’til things calm down, and keep him out of reach.
We’ll call it ‘western justice,’ and fuck the D.O.J.
A hangin’ judge like Barr of fudge can just put folks away.
We’ll keep ’em there, he’ll, solemn, swear until things settle down.
Yeah, he’s the one with all the guns in COVID-19 town.
The streets will look like Deadwood when the crooks are all in hidin’.
Forget the rules, you be sick fools. You’ll not be saved by Biden.
Pelosi cannot say a word or her lockup is certain,
with sheriff Barr shining his star and Trump behind the curtain.
The t.v. shows an arrestee, asked “Where you gonna go?”
Instead of shouting “Disney World,” he’ll cry “Guantanamo.”
by Rick Young | Apr 1, 2020 | Poem
It’s not cool this April fool to play tricks on outsiders.
Forget the jokes, it’s not a hoax, be good to care providers.
Help out with social distancing, perhaps wear scarves or masks.
And try to find a time and place not crowded for your tasks.
Spend time inside, don’t walk or ride, unless you need provisions.
Then make it fast, the time is past for pondering decisions.
Wash off your hands, don’t touch your face, don’t sneeze without a blocker.
Avoid the germs, obey the terms, it shouldn’t be a shocker.
There’ll come a time on down the line when folks can congregate.
But not today, just stay away, your soon could be too late.
This April first might be the worst in our health history.
So, can the pranks, stay in, give thanks, and read a mystery.
by Rick Young | Mar 31, 2020 | Poem
Death toll now tops nine-eleven.
Settin’ up spare cots in heaven.
Good thing Trump kept numbers down.
He should wear a golden crown.
Maybe a red cape velour,
on each arm a gorgeous whore.
On a pulpit made of gold.
He’s not fat. He’s not old.
Lies ! Lies ! Rolling in.
Fake news is the eighth damn sin.
Pay no heed to what he’ll shout.
Networks parse the whole truth out.
All his extras are on script,
reality stretched and chipped.
Only Fauci can be trusted.
Afraid someday he’ll be dusted,
Doctor Phil put in his place,
someone with a t.v. face.
Only pundits on the right
can be trusted in this fight.
Please don’t listen to the libs.
They will only tell you fibs.
His words are the only truth
in our isolation booth.
Trust your leader. Trust your king.
Only he can stop this thing.
And if we’re on the road to hell ,
he’ll ensure you that is swell.
Millions could die, I suppose.
No skin off his orange nose.
by Rick Young | Mar 30, 2020 | Poem
Trump’s Easter ‘aspiration’ caused lots of consternation.
Now ‘good things’ should be happening by June.
We’ll see ‘the bottom of the hill,” for real or by the force of will.
A hundred thousand will have died too soon.
We now lead the whole world with our high number of infections,
overtaking Spain and the Chinese.
He’s got to clear this up before the upcoming elections,
or else he’ll have to hand Biden the keys.
Twenty-twenty hindsight will not be kind to the world,
the year when we were all sent to our room.
COVID-19 had us in its deadly fingers curled.
We had to read about the gloom and doom.
And as the market crashed and people lashed out at their leaders,
Trump said he played it as a perfect ten.
With his sub-standard team of con men, crooks and bottom-feeders,
he led us through the viral lion’s den.
For all his hoary pomp and and in-your-damned-face lying,
his base remains, amazingly, intact.
He’ll use this as a power point, how he curtailed the dying,
no need for numbers, history or fact.
by Rick Young | Mar 29, 2020 | Obit
“Sarkafo” Gus was not a social distancing believer.
He’d prowl the street quite indiscreet, a ciggie butt retriever.
He’d kiss a baby, kiss a dog, if any were around.
He’d pick up pennies, anything that’s shiny, off the ground.
Cops would yell, “Hey! Dumb as hell! Get yourself back inside!”
He’d make like he had a home and find some place to hide.
For a week he’d roamed the road with nothing much to show.
An iron pipe, a can of tripe, a button-shaped rainbow.
His dream was that he owned the world, the last man left behind.
The rain came hard. The wind blew cold. The season was not kind.
So, when the radio call came, a dead man in the gutter,
the police knew that it must be Gus, the roving hobo nutter.
Four men in plastic suits arrived and threw him in a truck.
No obit, funeral, even prayers. Seemed no one gave a fuck.
