by Rick Young | Oct 5, 2020 | Poem
He’s a one-man Covid parade.
Be afraid. Be very afraid.
He says he gets miracles sent down by god,
while crossing his fingers, a wink and a nod.
His people are cheering him out in the street,
which prompted this psychotic sick meet and greet.
He says he’ll be back in the White House in days,
to rule like a fool in a medical haze.
He’s taking a hodgepodge of powerful drugs.
Some of them may not have worked out their bugs.
Stand back and stand by, this might not work out well,
a strange denouement to these four years in hell.
by Rick Young | Oct 3, 2020 | Poem
This episode is quite upsetting,
until you unravel the why.
This autocrat will not suffer defeat.
In fact, he would much rather die.
And so, there’s a plan now to fake his demise.
He’s hired the Jeff Epstein crew.
They’ll carry him out on a gurney real soon.
His makeup not orange, but blue.
His death by viral complications
will float through the Walter Reed halls.
His public will weep. He’ll be drugged to sleep.
This plan takes incredible balls.
Eric at the funeral seen giggling,
Don junior wasted, face ashine.
Ivanka’s great tears are collected
for her new smell of death perfume line.
Melania, thinking of her huge pre-nup,
will have trouble being her best.
While Barron will show no emotion at all.
He keeps things quite close to his vest.
Then, after the ‘burial,’ Trump will be spirited
to some undiscovered isle,
to party with Jeff and some other ‘dead’ crooks,
some of whom may have been there awhile.
His FOX friends will declare him the new best dead prez.
His base will wait for resurrection.
November will see Pence and Graham go down,
an historic lopsided election.
And when books look back at our crazed forty-five,
the turmoil and death he created,
they’ll always refer to the notebook they found
with the huge list of people he hated.
And, many years later, when questions arise,
through a tip from his aging last bride,
they’ll dig up his coffin to check on the bones,
and find Alec Baldwin inside.
by Rick Young | Oct 2, 2020 | Poem
The first thought is that this could be a set-up.
He’ll quarantine a few days, then he’ll get up,
say, “I beat China flu, so you can do it, too.
It only kills the weak.” And he won’t let up.
“Two hundred thousand didn’t have to die.
They could all beat it if they’d only try.
Melania and me just drank some Clorox tea,
and now we feel as good as apple pie.”
He’ll say the whole pandemic is a hoax.
And make a lot of Democratic jokes.
He’ll say that Chuckles Schumer
started the deadly rumor,
and that is what has killed all these poor folks.
A plague of liberal misinformation
is what has caused the death toll in our nation.
If Dems had listened to him about bleach,
we’d all be out now sunning on the beach.
“So, toss your masks away and breathe the air.
It may kill sickly oldsters; we don’t care.
Open up the schools; our kids now look like fools.
If I can beat it, so can you. I swear.”
by Rick Young | Sep 29, 2020 | Poem
The government wants your uterus.
Please mail it in a plain brown package
to Fetus Force, A.C.B. div. /SCOTUS9.
It will be reprogrammed, micro-chipped,
patriotically decorated and returned
with proper child-bearing instructions.
A list of government-approved names
and occupation choices will be included.
Fetus Force trackers will trace slackers
and offer standard sterilization services.
Strong and healthy babies will be eligible
for the maga-race initiation program,
and even the future leaders honor roll.
Promising infants may be enrolled
in our SocietyWantsAllMotivatedPeople
training school in a highly secret location.
Please comply immediately.
Do not risk the wrath of Fetus Force.
by Rick Young | Sep 28, 2020 | Poem
He’s a loser, just like you, sir.
You, who are his base.
He’s just a con whose time has come.
His suit might match his face.
Throw away that MAGA hat,
in thirty-six days moot.
It will mean,”My Ass Got Axed,”
after he gets the boot.
He cheated on his taxes, yes.
But that’s not the main point.
He’s in loan debt up to his hair.
Soon he’ll be in the joint.
And if orange is the new black,
rich folks investigated,
some more big cons could face his fate,
brought down, incarcerated.
by Rick Young | Sep 27, 2020 | Poem
The orange king has charged that sleepy Joe is using drugs,
the kind, in sports, called performance enhancing.
The first debate, they both should be injected with cocaine,
and then forced into hours of disco dancing.
The orange king knew that scene well when he was in his prime.
He boogied at Studio 54.
Looking back, it may well have been his most active time.
He’d go home with a model or a whore.
A dance-off now could be a test. He can’t walk down a ramp.
Did jivin’ Joe do blow in Delaware?
Aside from all the aches and pains and falling on the floor,
the key could be what happens to their hair.
