by Rick Young | Feb 15, 2020 | Poem
Down in Mar a Lago he’s installed his own rice paddy.
People love a dictator. Reminds them of their daddy.
He’s thinking of banana trees, as part of the illusion.
He’s begun to celebrate the fruits of his collusion.
He’s got slaves (he calls them knaves) who do his every bidding.
Some have formed a human sea wall for him (I’m not kidding).
Every time he goes down south, his cadre causes troubles.
There’s so many housed there the state population doubles.
Protective forces, drivers and his vaunted makeup pros.
Then there are the hangers-on, the faux rich and the ho’s.
Petty gangsters, mobsters, pranksters, senators and felons
gather round him like a saint and pray to taste his melons.
Far away from DC, he can stroll his course in white.
Eighteen holes-in-one, he’ll brag, ’til late into the night.
He’ll troll his acidic base in vain search for affection.
Maybe drop a hint he just might cancel next election.
What’s the use of counting votes? He’s bought himself a win.
Re-name the country Trumpland, then, and let the fun begin.
by Rick Young | Feb 14, 2020 | Poem
Shout out to our heartless king on this valentine's day,
hunkered in his office cutting programs for the poor,
blowing up old monuments that stand in his wall’s way,
insulting all his minions and dominions, to be sure.
The march of broken bodies he’s imagined in his head
will soothe him though he’s prone to sudden rages.
He’ll march them ’til they’re out of sight or most of them are dead.
The ones who make it through, he’ll put in cages.
He celebrates, as usual, with red tie and red hat.
He’ll eat delicious supper from a bucket.
And when his poor advisors come in for their daily chat,
he’ll glance at their synopsis, then he’ll chuck it.
His only ‘friend,’ dear Rudy will deliver candy hearts,
the ones that each contain a funny saying.
It’s the closest that he comes to dabbling in the arts.
Each special heart is stamped with the king’s braying.
There’s “Love is a Wall,” and “Booty on Call,”
and one that says “I (heart) My Daughter.”
He’ll finish the whole bag, then charge for a stall,
and start up his daily tweet slaughter.
by Rick Young | Feb 14, 2020 | Poem
No more justice. No more laws.
Trump has pointed out their flaws.
Now he will make all the calls
on which way the gavel falls.
Those who dis him, moan and wail.
You’ll be winding up in jail.
Those who praise and kiss his ass
will receive a lifetime pass.
No need now for judge or court.
Prison time if you abort.
Those with guns who treat him right
bask in his unholy might.
Former lawyers will get jobs
rounding up illegal mobs.
If you’re foreign, best start swimmin’.
Soon there’ll be no vote for women.
He’ll obey what Putin’s said,
maybe paint the White House red.
We’re walking a slippery ramp,
maybe toward containment camp.
Goodbye flawed democracy.
Welcome to the World of T.
by Rick Young | Feb 13, 2020 | Poem
Politics was overrun by Oscars Sunday night,
although, quite tellingly, the big win was “Parasite.”
It was not a documentary about our leader,
but a South Korean film from way off fame’s bright meter.
Other nominated films gave nods to our land’s dreadful plight.
“Irishman” had mobsters, “Joker” had a mind not right.
While, overall, the ceremony cleared the D.C. palate,
some might have wished these movie stars were on the coming ballot.
Joaquin, of course, would be the Secretary of the Mad.
Though some would say there’s several in this cabinet just as bad.
Brad Pitt would be the head of ‘IT’ and work without a shirt.
Renee would roam the capital, sing Judy ’til it hurt.
And what if exercising Jane was made the new A.G.
In her red dress, she’d fix the mess we’ve made of history.
And last, but not least, comes Sir Elton, our own Rocket Man.
Imagine him in uniform, head of the Space Force plan.
Alas the show is over and it’s back to day-to-day.
Gone is the flash, here comes the bash. All we can do is pray.
by Rick Young | Feb 12, 2020 | Poem
Throw a bone to Roger Stone and lock up testifiers.
Whistle blowers, it’s been shown, are dictator deniers.
Anyone who’s gone to court and acted as a witness
may think twice and cut things short just to preserve their fitness.
Criminals of every ilk have got to be delighted.
Accusations slide like silk and no one gets indicted.
It’s just like the good old days, Capone’s Chicago gang.
Kill the the rats and pay the judge, let the wrong guy hang.
Jurisprudence now lies bleeding on the courtroom floor.
It’s time for crime’s daily feeding. Katy, Barr the door.
