by Rick Young | Mar 10, 2020 | Poem
The president will challenge this new virus.
They say he’s got more balls than Miley Cyrus.
He’s hanging out with men who’ve been exposed.
“It can’t touch me,” he claims, and case is closed.
He doesn’t drink Corona, so he thinks he is immune.
He’ll grab that virus, tie it up, pow, zoom, up to the moon.
He’s like a super hero who has not a shred of power.
He wears an orange mask that washes right off in the shower.
But he will climb into the ring with dread COVID-19.
“I like a virus old enough to vote. Know what I mean?”
If he is knocked out in the tenth just like Rocky Balboa,
he’ll quarantine at Bloomberg’s scene, American Samoa.
And as the virus tours our country, proud to be the champ,
he’ll sit in sweats with Playboy pets. “Please wipe my face, I’m damp.”
by Rick Young | Mar 9, 2020 | Obit
Max von Sydow had to die so now we’re in a twist.
Our president’s possessed but we have no exorcist.
Now all the white house beds and lies will have to keep on spinning.
Trump’s got the hair of Linda Blair, but he’s much better sinning.
The bile that spews out of his mouth is not so green and gooey.
But it still stinks like backed-up sinks, vile water filled with hooey.
Who will now play chess with death since Max has lost his game?
Perhaps Sir Jared, whitest knight, will do it for his dame.
And so, The Seventh Seal begins anew in our plagued time.
An exorcist does not exist inside this house of crime.
by Rick Young | Mar 8, 2020 | Poem
I’m on a self-imposed Trump quarantine.
It seemed his medicine would make me mean.
Just to see his mug would make me get the bug.
So, I’m afraid I’ll have to quit his scene.
I’ll spend more quality time with Mike Pence.
Trump may be a wall, but he’s a fence.
You can see right through him in some light.
Creationism’s knight of all things white.
And, for chuckles, there is always Mick,
exiled, off to Ireland, real quick.
Go hang out with Boris and Macron.
There you can get your quid pro quo on.
by Rick Young | Mar 7, 2020 | Poem
Democratic Saving Time is creeping up upon us,
when we set the clocks ahead four years.
We who lost a lot of sleep aboard the anti-don bus
can now discard our busted hopes and fears.
Waking up the next morn, we’ll remember not the nightmare
which infected months, weeks, days and hours,
casting off the subterfuge and lies so bold and bare,
deliberate misuse of his great powers.
Perhaps when time jumps forward, we’ll restore the reputation
of our country, which was once held in esteem.
Perhaps to his victims we can offer reparation,
and put ourselves back on track for the dream.
by Rick Young | Mar 6, 2020 | Song
Trump has a hunch about the virus spread.
The sick aren’t really sick and the dead are playing dead.
It’s all a Democratic trick to get inside his head.
They can’t do that, he says, because he’s had it lined with lead.
They’re pumping up the numbers to impair his sure election.
The dead will rise, that’s no surprise, it’s zombie resurrection.
They’ll storm election polls with noses dripping from their face,
and use the virus hoax to try to scare away his base.
“I have a hunch my MAGA people will put up a fight,
they know I am the chosen one. This virus they shall smite.
And good Mike Pence, our plague defense, will keep the numbers low.
The dead will all be buried in his cornfields, row by row.
No virus. No virus. This virus is fake news.
It’s only flu. Boo-hoo. Boo-hoo. You got the fake plague blues.”
