by Rick Young | Nov 12, 2020 | Poem
Today we learned of RINO’s and dead dogs at the polls.
Apparently all zombies weren’t removed from voter rolls.
A dog did vote beside me. He’d a coat of rusty red.
I saw him vote straight Dem but didn’t know that he was dead.
And what about that chicken who was behind me in line?
And those two cats in hoodies that I’m sure were quite feline.
And talk about the rotten eggs put inside voting baskets.
I got quite suspicious when they rolled in all the caskets.
Also saw one voter who looked just like a cyborg.
A few cold souls rolled in obviously straight out of the morgue.
We’ve got to stop this voting bloc of pets and the undead.
They had their choice to vote for Gore before.
The rest’s unsaid.
by Rick Young | Nov 11, 2020 | Poem
It’s been hinted that Joe Biden will tear down the southern wall,
and have it moved to 666 Fifth Ave.
One assumes the Kushner/Trump alliance won’t like that at all.
The wall’s the only souvenir they have.
But then it could be used to keep debt collectors away.
And pasted up with signs for twenty-four.
“I’ll put this back when I am re-elected,” it might say.
Meanwhile, he won’t be answering the door.
And if antifa members try to desecrate his wall,
and spray it with slogans like “Black Lives Matter,”
then Trump might post himself outside with Teddy’s great big stick,
and scream, “You be the ball. I’ll be the batter.”
Ivanka just might use the wall to brand her haute couture,
a clothing line for rapists and drug dealers.
And Jared might sell framed chunks, trying to work down his debt.
He’s already sent the Saudis several feelers.
DJ and Eric can use parts to set up their new scam,
a petting zoo for just endangered species.
“We won’t have to kill them if this works,’ said junior Don.
“We might even make tacos from their feces.”
So, say goodbye to your great fence, good people of the south.
Some day it may return if things go wrong.
If not, perhaps it will be purchased by the band Pink Floyd,
and resurrected just to play their song.
(“If you don’t eat yer meat, you can’t have any pudding.”)
by Rick Young | Nov 10, 2020 | Poem
There’ll be dogs back in the White House pretty soon.
They’ll replace the current resident baboon.
The return of shed pet hair will be easier to bear
than the current crypto locks of golden doom.
There’ll be barking, but within the canine way.
There’ll be no one left inside the House to spay.
And, in the coming setting, there will be lots of petting.
No longer will the place smell like hair spray.
by Rick Young | Nov 9, 2020 | Poem
Vote counters are getting death threats.
Trump people don’t like mathematics.
Besides, their king says he would bet
they’re rapists and drug addicts.
“A boy who dotes on numbers,
like a girl who plays with guns,
just cannot be familiar with
the way this country runs.”
And so his people wait outside,
and most inside are nervous.
“I’ve not seen so many guns
since I was in the service.”
The crownless king plays golf and snarls,
makes claims he is the winner.
He wants to see a recount
before he sits down to dinner.
He’ll pout and whine on every day
that’s left in this dread year.
He’ll replay his balcony scene
in hopes that folks will cheer.
He’ll call on Ted Cruz, Lindsey Graham,
all his best butt lickers.
We will know it’s near the end
when Guilliani flickers.
On January twenty first,
come hell or muddy water.
We’ll see them walk away, bags packed,
two whacked sons and a daughter.
And lastly, sobbing, head down,
shuffling and shoulders slumped,
will exit exiled king, with queen,
to shouts’ “You’ve just been TRUMPED !”
by Rick Young | Nov 6, 2020 | Poem
And here comes Pennsylvania rounding the far turn,
spurred on by her buoyant rider, Li’l Ben FX, passing now,
on the outside, Arizona, ridden by John McCain’s ghost,
and Georgia, with the devil in the saddle, and Nevada,
which many voters thought had a lock on second place.
Lastly, falling back on the rail is North Carolina, whose rider,
Thom Tillis, looks like he might better appreciate the ACA
when this horse race is over. His steed looks extremely spent.
by Rick Young | Nov 5, 2020 | Poem
Arizona, I hope Diamondbacks next year will win it all.
Nevada, may your gambling state long reign.
As I watched in horror states turn red and drop the ball,
I wondered at four more years spent in pain.
Florida looked good at first, then came Miami Dade.
Texas held some mild surprises, then blue got waylaid.
Georgia, thanks to Stacey Abrams, held out early hope.
So did Carolina, for a while, then, later, nope.
Minnie, Michi, Wiscy, Illi built their midwest wall.
Only problem there: it looked like Penny just might fall.
Then, up stepped Arizona, and it opened a new lane.
It turned a red state blue in memory of John McCain.
And then there came Nevada, with its memories of shooting.
A state that suffered his four years stepped up to do the booting.
And so, a blue line runs from Texas border to Seattle,
leaving Trump’s mouthpieces crying foul about the battle.
“We will win Pennsylvania,” screams Eric, the dumber son.
That’s great, blockhead; it means your daddy only lost by one.
It’s still not quite official. We await the checkered flag.
But that’s soon due. The winning blue votes linger in the bag.
