by Rick Young | Apr 17, 2020 | Poem
Batman should have stopped this thing.
I’m sure he heard the rumors.
He could have put on his bat ring.
I’ve heard that cured some tumors.
And Superman, those x-ray eyes,
did they not see Wuhan?
His explanation, no surprise,
he’d just gone to the john.
The Flash could have been way out front
and stopped contamination.
But he was busy making cards
for his kids’ education.
While Spiderman was mending webs
and texting Mary Jane,
he could have protected New York.
I mean, it’s just insane.
And where was Hulk, the big green jock?
He’s spent some time in labs.
No, he was working ’round the clock
on building up his abs.
Seems Wonder Woman could have been
the world’s heroic nurse.
But now she’ll use her see-through plane
as temporary hearse.
If we can’t trust our super heroes
to defeat mere germs,
we’ve got to change some ones and zeroes,
rearrange their terms.
by Rick Young | Apr 14, 2020 | Poem
New York rats are now eating each other.
“Just the way I planned it,” claims the Prez.
Jared’s going to film it for a special.
It’ll be on pay-per-view, he says.
They’ll find every way to make a profit,
even in a country torn by plague.
Each designer face mask by Ivanka
costs as much as a Faberge egg.
Rudy got a deal on ventilators,
shipped up here from Mexico by bus.
Not a company many have heard of.
Translates into “Oxygen Is Us.”
Fauci’s been induced into a coma.
He was getting a bit out of hand.
He refused to bow to our great leader,
whose pure vision saved our sacred land.
Next comes the “Open Our Country Council,”
led by Kushners, “Nooch,” and Wilbur Ross.
It will spend much time in contemplation.
That’s if Ben Carson’s appointed boss.
In three weeks, a switch flips and we’re open.
Economy will boom, as good as new.
In four weeks, a rerun we weren’t hoping:
Welcome to Corona Virus II.
by Rick Young | Apr 12, 2020 | Poem
He loves to preside.
As for those who’ve died:
just leave them outside.
The tent is his show.
There won’t be no ponies,
but a lot of phonies,
and all his tight cronies,
the swamp as you know.
The first ring is lies,
where he death-defies,
just spinning in air
his spurious deeds.
Then in comes the lion,
an Elder of Zion,
with more facts to try on.
Contest if you dare.
In ring two, distortion,
defined as contortion,
you won’t get your portion,
but, brother, beware.
They’ll twist facts to pretzels.
Have you buying Edsels,
fill your head with dreadfuls,
until you don’t care.
In ring three the cheaters,
scam glam and tax beaters.
His kids are the greeters.
Consumer beware.
They’ll ask for your wallet.
Black magic, they’ll call it.
No way to forestall it.
All good, they will swear.
And when you leave the tent,
all raging and hell-bent,
you’ll think that the bucks spent
went to a just cause.
It’s called domination,
masked as jubilation.
You’re on the right station.
Now comes a brief pause.
by Rick Young | Apr 11, 2020 | Poem
NyQuil and Pop Rocks,
prescribed by some docs.
Stomach explosion.
Virus erosion.
Soaking in a nice hot tub,
filled to top with VapoRub,
could relieve some chest congestion.
Some have called this into question.
Eyedrops put inside the ears,
followed by some several beers,
might relieve anxiety,
without much propriety.
Ankle weights in pool’s deep end
can relieve that breathing trend.
Fauci says just stay inside,
take the sleep train for a ride.
Save the unproved remedies
for the maga wannabes.
Let them follow doctor T
down his path of infamy.
Any drug he recommends
will make money for his friends.
Do not listen to his raves!
You’ll all end up in mass graves.
by Rick Young | Apr 10, 2020 | Poem
We sold our masks at markup way before this thing began.
And then we started companies to make them back again.
And now we’re selling cure-all pills and stories without oranges,
all backed up by stacked judges, FOX and Republicanosauruses.
Election’s all but cancelled and the roving gangs assemble.
It’s enough to make an old man cry and children tremble.
Disassembled premises are being hacked together,
thrown out like mere test balloons upon the public weather.
Somewhere there’s a castle below ground where they’ll be hiding,
watching as their public disavows all law abiding.
Guns and fools will be the rules, a game show they will tout.
A lot like fake Survivor but with lots more blood about.
Gun sales and the stock market have just begun their thriving.
Melt your pots and pans to shields if you’ve hope of surviving.
When this is through, the dead man stew is going to fill a lake.
Deep underground in their compound, they’ll do the secret shake.
by Rick Young | Apr 4, 2020 | Poem
Lone Ranger wore a black face mask and had a native slave.
He had a horse named Silver and he never missed a shave.
But Clayton Moore was quite a bore and wore masks after quitting.
You’re not the Ranger any more, they said. He said, You’re shitting.
Tonto’d back to Silverheels, old Jay hung with Lyle Lovett.
He bought a boat and set afloat, said, Kemosabe, shove it.
Hoppy, Gene and Roy lived on, with all their sidekicks breeding.
Sometime during every show, you’d see the horses feeding.
John Reid’s ranger brothers were all killed by Butch’s gang.
In his last wish, said, Cavendish, I’ll live to see you hang.
Then Tonto came to save him. And it all goes well from there.
Twice in each show, he’d scream “Hi-Yo” and Silver reared in air.
Some movies came, but we were jaded by the black and white.
O.K., he’d made a brave his slave; but still it seemed all right.
