by Rick Young | Feb 6, 2020 | Story
In what’s now become the wild wild west,
there’s a bedtime story kids love best,
about a family that ruled the land
in what came to be a four year stand.
The ruler’s name was Darn X Dump,
known widely for his death fist bump.
His model wife, named Melanoma,
purchased at Williams Sonoma,
sons named Airwick and Darn Too,
Barren, raised inside a shoe,
daughter Ipana, a looker,
whom he treated like a hooker.
One kid named Epiphany
made no noise, she was thought-free.
He’d cast off wives like used cars,
spent his free time with porn stars.
Some doubled down on hate. He tripled.
Even made fun of the crippled.
Came to power through his cheating,
threatening, lying, then defeating.
Made up nasty names for all.
His motto was “It’s my ball.”
Those who loved the sound of static
seemed to find him charismatic.
Finally, breaking all the rules,
he’d amassed a land of fools.
His next step was put up walls,
kids in cages, he had balls.
No one was beyond his reach.
Whispers came, “impeach…impeach.”
His concept of give-and-take:
putting heads upon a stake.
Ultimately got free reign,
although quite clearly insane.
Over all things he held sway.
Sleep now, or he’ll come your way.
by Rick Young | Feb 5, 2020 | Song
That’s Faye Wray, heading right this way on a giant monkey sleigh. Looks like a thriller.
The Wu Tang Clan swoop right down on Rodan, and right there by their side is Barney MIller.
And here comes Jerry Lee, that cajun killer bee. It seems he’s put a saddle on Godzilla.
They’ve all joined their forces, and saddled up their horses, then put them on a boat to take Manilla.
Perhaps they’re all cranked up on dope.
They think they’ll find an envelope which may just knock the world off of its axis.
And if the good prevail and don’t get thrown in jail, it contains the holy grail: Trump’s taxes.
Super heroes, don your capes, enough of this sour grapes!
Put on your suit, Kim Jong Un. Rise up from the Black Lagoon.
Wolf Man Letterman arise in your CPA disguise.
It is time now, Bob DeNiro, to be off-screen super hero.
Bernie Sanders, commie jew, storm Internal Revenue.
Get those numbers on this chump. Quasimodo, use your hump.
Nick and Asta, call the wife. He’s been cheating all his life.
Mothra, rise to this occasion. Beat your wings for tax evasion.
Trump, your passport: better stamp it. On your heels comes old Jed Clampett.
Perry Mason, Matlock, too: this may all come down to you.
Once the numbers are in place, Trump will claim a state of grace.
But the numbers do not lie, it’s cited. Odds say forty-five will be indicted.
Ignore all his razzmatazz. Drop him off at Alcatraz. He can’t swim. so don’t get all excited.
by Rick Young | Feb 4, 2020 | Poem
The state of the union is very much divided,
warring factions calling each, the other one, misguided.
A slippery slope, no hope, no hope, and both are quite sheer sided.
Two ships of fools without clear rules about to be collided.
The market is our shining harbor where the rich folks play.
But on the streets homes made of sheets and boxes mar the way.
The dial-up universe is where the voters have their say.
While there are zones without i-phones that hint of judgement day.
There’s some who’d die to save their guns and praise confederation.
Others cite the children killed while seeking education.
Close the borders, screams one side, we must have separation.
On the news, there’s lies and facts, depending on the station.
In this country painted red, some edges are still green.
Others find the blues their muse and hunker in between.
It’s been shown the colors gold and orange can turn mean.
So, here’s a chance for one more dance. Begin the last beguine.
by Rick Young | Feb 3, 2020 | Song
Oh say can you see by the Don’s surly fight
Why so proudly we hail all his sly lies and scheming.
Whose broad snipes and bright slurs through the impeachment fight,
O’er his huge wall we watched as his twitter was streaming.
And the rocket’s red glare killed a general somewhere,
Gave proof to the right that he really don’t care.
Oh say does his long red tie ceaselessly wave
o’er a land of the free in a circumstance grave?
by Rick Young | Feb 2, 2020 | Poem
Football is a game which can prompt some heated discussions,
some about statistics, some about concussions.
People’d rather see these very pumped up gladiators
doing their tough mayhem dance, quite unlike fey ice skaters.
When they score, they celebrate as if they’ve saved the world,
all because a pigskin ball was caught when it was hurled.
Wearing so much armor you can barely see their faces,
yet it’s a safe bet some will lie broken in some places.
During half time bands with tubas march around the field.
Then the battered bruisers come back out to see who’ll yield.
When at last the time runs out and one’s declared the winner,
they go to the locker room and eat pain pills for dinner.
All in all, it’s not a game that one should teach a child.
Don’t spend your summers working out, go find the girls gone wild.
