by Rick Young | Jan 18, 2020 | Poem
I is for the idiot in office.
M is for the many he has hurt.
P is for the presidency, blemished.
E is for the epithets he’ll blurt.
A is for his acolytes, those cowards.
C is for the cooch he likes to grab.
H is for the heavy heap of healing
we’ll all need when we peel off the scab.
Put them all together they spell “high crimes,”
reasons why the senate must impeach.
It’s a tragic ending for a man who was unbending,
trying to achieve what’s out of reach.
by Rick Young | Jan 17, 2020 | Poem
Who scrubbed Tubman off the twenty?
Who told fibs and lies aplenty?
Killing generals with his rockets,
lining his whole family’s pockets,
turning D.C. to a swamp,
no bad deed he will not comp,
with the enemy conspired,
even Uncle Sam got fired,
wound up in impeachment’s hall
before he could kill us all,
his whole party hypnotized,
tyranny’s been realized,
before next election comes,
he’ll be beating on war drums,
making the whole country squirm.
Pray we can survive his term.
And now that he’s packed the court,
hope that we can still abort.
Screaming baby still alive.
That’s what we call Forty Five.
by Rick Young | Jan 16, 2020 | Poem
There was an orange man upon the moor
who walked as if his feet were very sore.
He trampled on the gorse,
a stumbling ox off course.
His makeup made him seem somewhat the whore.
I’m looking for my golf course he did shout,
or otherwise I would not be about.
They took away my job,
the burnished hulk did sob.
And I seem to have a bit of gout.
The golf course here had lately gone to seed.
Without his business trips there was no need.
So he just wandered lost,
complaining of the cost.
A fool untethered’s twice the fool, indeed.
Alas, he stooped and came up with a ball,
which, much like his own, was white and small.
Now I must find a hole,
he screamed to no seen soul,
and, after that, I’m going to build a wall!
by Rick Young | Jan 13, 2020 | Poem
“The president’s a potty mouth,” a youngster claimed sincerely.
“He says words that would have me in time out.”
And so his mother answered him, because she loved him dearly,
“It’s not just words, it’s what they are about.”
She said he’d put some children just as young as him in cages
and separated parents far away.
He asked her, “What the hell is this, the fucking middle ages?”
She laughed her ass off for that whole damned day.
by Rick Young | Jan 11, 2020 | Poem
Amongst my spam, instructions, on making old knives sharp.
Another touts that I’ll have doubts if I don’t join in AARP.
One says I’ll have a great surprise if I will only exercise.
Another has glass lenses that are daily crying for my eyes.
There’s many tell me how to vote and even how to pray.
And several hock the coffins that I’ll need on judgement day.
Makeup, break up, tips on cooking,
all things for which I’m not looking,
influences my take on each spammer.
All day I sing, “If I Had a Hammer.”
