by Rick Young | Dec 15, 2019 | Song
Misuse of his power we could chronicle an hour.
Obstruction is the juice that’s in his veins.
In the senate, trial becomes shit shower,
with his pal Moscow Mitch at the reins.
O how Lindsey will spout Graham crackers,
and Jim Jordan cross the Rhine with whine.
The hoax cry will rise from all his backers
’bout that phone call, perfect, not just fine.
In the end the Dems will be rejected,
subjected to lies and ‘facts’ absurd.
Grounds and reason will both be neglected.
Vindicated shouts of Orange Turd.
In the oval office he’ll be seething,
fascist lying smile upon his lips.
Hatred fills the air with just his breathing.
Back to work on the apocalypse.
by Rick Young | Dec 13, 2019 | Poem
In the air there’s pre-impeachment smell.
Children play with Nadler and Schiff toys.
Orange tweets as if one foot in hell,
scolding all the donkey girls and boys.
He is screaming, “I’ll get you, my pretties!
I hate scum no matter what the age is.”
He’ll now invade sanctuary cities,
throwing leftist sugarplums in cages.
There will be no presents for the needy.
Only one percenters hear his sleigh.
“Christmas time is only for the greedy.
And, if you don’t like it, go away!”
He made just one new year’s resolution,
give each Democrat a lump of coal.
Moscow Mitch will lead a revolution,
stripping this whole country of its soul.
In his kingdom, we are merely elves,
working in the markets of the rich.
Soon there’ll be spy cams on all the shelves.
Fascist Holidays. Hey, life’s a bitch.
by Rick Young | Nov 21, 2019 | Poem
Ukraine on the brain
causes Democratic pain.
Ambassador smeared by Rudy
was called home, relieved of duty.
Three amigos were inserted,
funds for weapons then diverted.
If they do a favor, though,
U.S. will release the dough.
Just get dirt on Biden’s son.
Stop Joe’s presidential run.
Take the blame off Russia’s tricks
in the last election fix.
Prez Zelenskiy, be a honey.
Quid pro quo will get your money.
by Rick Young | Nov 1, 2019 | Poetry, Posthumous Additions
Drumpie’s moved to Florida,
there’s fewer taxes there.
He leaves his tower in New York
and much synthetic hair.
He’ll blend in with the old folks
in a state of milk and honey.
And he will find a thousand ways
to rid them of their money.
He’ll wear his mirrored glasses,
ogle women on the beach,
a state of tits and asses
where impeachment’s out of reach.
He’ll claim that Mar-a-Lago
is the greatest place on earth.
And no one there will dare to care
about what he is worth.
Away down south he’ll get far from
the liberals and haters.
And, best of all, his shotgun sons
can go hunt alligators.
by Rick Young | Oct 30, 2019 | Poem
My creeping paranoia may become an ailment soon.
I’ll be sentenced to a Bates Motel-like cell of doom.
Everything, I’ve realized, has been a total sham,
organized, through history, by Uncle Sam I Am.
I danced through school the total fool and fell into the war.
I didn’t know a thing of life or what its rules were for.
I soon found out that in was out and up was often down.
The stealer was the healer. The hero was the clown.
I took to shelter, helter skelter, life in dreams my den.
Some years ago I was at peace. I can’t remember when.
