by Rick Young | Mar 2, 2019 | Song
I get those rocking chair blues
every time I hear the news.
There’s a man in shirt and shoes
who is drowning in his clues.
And a circle of bad folks
who are out there telling jokes.
And no one’s dying anywhere
or hiding dirty underwear.
There is no legal treason case
when all the judges wear his face.
And everyone not on the take
is vilified as wrong or fake.
The workers take his hardest hits.
When he opens his mouth he shits.
His odor spreads around the globe.
In all, he is a mankind-phobe.
That’s why I got to get out
from these rocking chair blues.
I’m sick of seeing nazis
toting guns and fire and booze.
There’s a man upon a hill
in shirt, shoes and red tie,
who’ll stop these rocking, shocking blues
when hung up by his lie.
by Rick Young | Feb 19, 2019 | Poem
I only ate one slice of bacon,
just some gristle and some fat,
but my vegan friends went crazy,
asking how could I do that.
Acted like I’d stripped a forest,
killed Babe, eaten Bambi’s mom,
like I’d torn off Dumbo’s ears
or dropped a raw hamburger bomb.
It was just a momentary lapse,
I hastened to explain.
But that pork inside my stomach
really seemed to give them pain.
There’s no calming hard-line vegans
once you have ingested meat.
Might as well take this thing further,
walk ’em down carnivore street.
Told them I was really sorry,
their forgiveness I would beg.
It’s a good thing, then I mumbled,
that they hadn’t seen the egg.
And tonight, said, for my supper,
I was planning one great meal:
frogs’ legs all done up in butter,
chicken liver and some veal.
Now my vegan friends are wary.
When I pass, they all look south.
I imagine I look scary
with blood dripping from my mouth.
by Rick Young | Feb 14, 2019 | Uncategorized
I’m not a man of grace. In fact, I can be mean.
I don’t respect the president, the papacy or queen.
There is only one thing that I love, and this is true.
There’s one face on my totem, dear, and that belongs to you.
I drink too much and sleep all day, then party through the night.
I don’t help to support the left although I hate the right.
I don’t take part in races ’cause I always throw a shoe.
My heart’s a silver locket and the face inside is you.
The road not taken’s long behind and up ahead’s a wall.
My life is in its winter phase. I’m ready for the fall.
I’ll climb that ladder in the sky up to the castle blue.
The one face on the parapet I’m looking for is you.
I’m a cold brother trucker never got off that dirt road.
I’ve thrown aside some friends, it’s true, to lighten up my load.
But when I break out of the cage, escape the human zoo,
my sidekick on the trip to come eternally is you.
by Rick Young | Feb 14, 2019 | Poem, Posthumous Additions
I’m not a man of grace. In fact, I can be mean.
I don’t respect the president, the papacy or queen.
There is only one thing that I love, and this is true.
There’s one face on my totem, dear, and that belongs to you.
I drink too much and sleep all day, then party through the night.
I don’t help to support the left although I hate the right.
I don’t take part in races ’cause I always throw a shoe.
My heart’s a silver locket and the face inside is you.
The road not taken’s long behind and up ahead’s a wall.
My life is in its winter phase. I’m ready for the fall.
I’ll climb that ladder in the sky up to the castle blue.
The one face on the parapet I’m looking for is you.
I’m a cold brother trucker never got off that dirt road.
I’ve thrown aside some friends, it’s true, to lighten up my load.
But when I break out of the cage, escape the human zoo,
my sidekick on the trip to come eternally is you.
by Rick Young | Feb 8, 2019 | Poem
Othello. He hated Jello.
He was a Moor and things that shake
destroyed his mellow.
And his good wife, Desdemona,
who lived in Venice but quite enjoyed Barcelona,
got entangled with Iago,
who was a tough guy from Detroit or else Chicago.
There were some Turks,
but they got drownded.
And Desdemona dropped her hankie and got grounded.
And meanwhile Cassio, who was a soldier,
becomes important in act five when he gets older.
But when Othello strangles his wife,
you realize the play’s run out of life.
The bad Iago, mute on the shelf,
kills his own wife, and then Othello kills himself.
The play then ends. You go outside.
It seems it’s either have a drink or suicide.
You hit the pub. And close the door,
not sure if you like Shakespeare any moor.
