by Rick Young | Jun 30, 2020 | Poem
The king heads to Mount Rushmore on the third.
He wants to shit on their heads like a bird.
The giant three slave owners,
enough to give him boners;
he likes the fact they won’t get in a word.
The worry is he’ll climb up on their faces,
searching for the one that he replaces.
The best bet is old Abe, emancipation’s babe.
The king would like to modify his stasis.
“Then I’ll be number one,”
(points up with tiny thumb)
“the top Republican chief of all time.”
He’ll plant a couple caps,
wipe Lincoln off the maps,
and say it was a joke and not a crime.
by Rick Young | Jun 29, 2020 | Poem
One-hundred-fifty fighter jets will fly over D.C.
They’ll all be dropping pamphlets that say, “Get out of jail free!”
A red-faced horde of sycophants will do the MAGA dance.
Mike Pence will nod his head and smile as if he’s in a trance.
Mini tanks will crush a group of mannequin protestors.
William Barr will sell his soul and ask for more investors.
The flattened curve will be rolled out and used for kiddie rides.
The king has asked they don’t wear masks, or else he’ll tan their hides.
A small parade of golf cart seniles will all chant, “White Power!”
Looking for clowns, Eric will, of course, be lost one hour.
Stars and stripes and bars and snakes will be most proudly waved.
The king will rant about the great great monuments he’s saved.
And, as the grand finale, he’ll do something he likes best,
unleash a squad of armored cops, put ‘thugs’ under arrest.
So, be aware, and do take care, if you take to the street.
D.C. in flames, amongst endgames, might seem to him quite sweet.
by Rick Young | Jun 26, 2020 | Poem
Take away our health care at the crux of the pandemic,
erasing all Obama’s done with malice most systemic,
the blatant boss of all that’s lost is king of the unkind,
and lighting fires everywhere that he can leave behind.
His legacy will be a black hole in the Constitution,
which he will brag of endlessly when in the institution.
His processed head will wind up on the Rushmore wall of evil,
between Jeffrey Daumer and the long-snouted boll weevil.
One hundred twenty thousand dead and infrastructure rotting,
but he has not one healing plan amidst his vicious plotting.
The privileged will inherit Earth in his cruel life’s rendition.
He’s our bedsore, a money whore, our country’s precondition.
If he should lie before we wake, it comes as no surprise.
He’d kill us all, we must stand tall and open up our eyes.
What he will do before November will take years to fix.
He doesn’t mind. He’s lost his mind. He does it all for kicks.
by Rick Young | Jun 24, 2020 | Poem
His trip fell on the day the state’s coronavirus doubled.
With temps nearing a hundred, you could tell it might be troubled.
The first stop was in Yuma, just to visit his dear wall.
Two workers just got sick out there, so that was a good call.
Then it was on to Phoenix rally, in Dream City Church.
Checked that there are no ramps there, so he won’t have to lurch.
They claimed their church was safe because of special air filtration.
Not by God, but by some members’ fast ionization.
Experts said their claim had no base in reality.
Come on down, don’t wear a mask, and we will wait and see.
Arizona’s virus growth rate, fastest in the states,
seems to show this rally was a tempting of the fates.
by Rick Young | Jun 22, 2020 | Poem
The rent is due, we’ve got the flu.
The petting zoo is closed.
The world shut down, our reigning clown
through all the warnings dozed.
But now we’re opened up again,
as if nothing occurred.
We’re back, he claims, though flu sustains.
Do not believe one word.
As the whole world stood aghast
at our lack of prevention,
he said we’re fine, it fades in time.
He rules with blind invention.
His comeback rally failed by half,
enflamed his aggravation.
And his solution, do not laugh,
is cut back immigration.
Those foreigners will take our jobs,
we must even the score.
It’s mean, it’s shrill, it’s overkill.
The work’s not there no more.
The Senate will do what he asks.
They’re just his rubber stamp.
The king of all who won’t wear masks
descends a hellish ramp.
by Rick Young | Jun 21, 2020 | Poem
K-Pop bopped the big gum drop.
His orangeness was steamingly aware.
This opening was nothing but a costly photo op.
But when he reached the mike, his fans weren’t there.
He looked around and saw an upper deck of empty seats,
then rambled out a racist monologue.
He blamed the evil media and protests in the streets
It seems he had been punked, the fascist dog.
The millions he expected reserved rally tix online,
but K-Pop ‘stans’ had organized this ruse.
So, for an hour all he did was crazy rant and whine,
thinking of the staffers he’ll abuse.
He praised confederates and said protesters broke the law.
He said he’d jail all burners of the flag.
When it was over, it was clear this rally was a flaw.
There’s not much left now in his hateful bag.
