by Rick Young | Feb 14, 2020 | Poem
Shout out to our heartless king on this valentine's day,
hunkered in his office cutting programs for the poor,
blowing up old monuments that stand in his wall’s way,
insulting all his minions and dominions, to be sure.
The march of broken bodies he’s imagined in his head
will soothe him though he’s prone to sudden rages.
He’ll march them ’til they’re out of sight or most of them are dead.
The ones who make it through, he’ll put in cages.
He celebrates, as usual, with red tie and red hat.
He’ll eat delicious supper from a bucket.
And when his poor advisors come in for their daily chat,
he’ll glance at their synopsis, then he’ll chuck it.
His only ‘friend,’ dear Rudy will deliver candy hearts,
the ones that each contain a funny saying.
It’s the closest that he comes to dabbling in the arts.
Each special heart is stamped with the king’s braying.
There’s “Love is a Wall,” and “Booty on Call,”
and one that says “I (heart) My Daughter.”
He’ll finish the whole bag, then charge for a stall,
and start up his daily tweet slaughter.
by Rick Young | Feb 14, 2020 | Poem
No more justice. No more laws.
Trump has pointed out their flaws.
Now he will make all the calls
on which way the gavel falls.
Those who dis him, moan and wail.
You’ll be winding up in jail.
Those who praise and kiss his ass
will receive a lifetime pass.
No need now for judge or court.
Prison time if you abort.
Those with guns who treat him right
bask in his unholy might.
Former lawyers will get jobs
rounding up illegal mobs.
If you’re foreign, best start swimmin’.
Soon there’ll be no vote for women.
He’ll obey what Putin’s said,
maybe paint the White House red.
We’re walking a slippery ramp,
maybe toward containment camp.
Goodbye flawed democracy.
Welcome to the World of T.
by Rick Young | Feb 13, 2020 | Poem
Politics was overrun by Oscars Sunday night,
although, quite tellingly, the big win was “Parasite.”
It was not a documentary about our leader,
but a South Korean film from way off fame’s bright meter.
Other nominated films gave nods to our land’s dreadful plight.
“Irishman” had mobsters, “Joker” had a mind not right.
While, overall, the ceremony cleared the D.C. palate,
some might have wished these movie stars were on the coming ballot.
Joaquin, of course, would be the Secretary of the Mad.
Though some would say there’s several in this cabinet just as bad.
Brad Pitt would be the head of ‘IT’ and work without a shirt.
Renee would roam the capital, sing Judy ’til it hurt.
And what if exercising Jane was made the new A.G.
In her red dress, she’d fix the mess we’ve made of history.
And last, but not least, comes Sir Elton, our own Rocket Man.
Imagine him in uniform, head of the Space Force plan.
Alas the show is over and it’s back to day-to-day.
Gone is the flash, here comes the bash. All we can do is pray.
by Rick Young | Feb 12, 2020 | Poem
Throw a bone to Roger Stone and lock up testifiers.
Whistle blowers, it’s been shown, are dictator deniers.
Anyone who’s gone to court and acted as a witness
may think twice and cut things short just to preserve their fitness.
Criminals of every ilk have got to be delighted.
Accusations slide like silk and no one gets indicted.
It’s just like the good old days, Capone’s Chicago gang.
Kill the the rats and pay the judge, let the wrong guy hang.
Jurisprudence now lies bleeding on the courtroom floor.
It’s time for crime’s daily feeding. Katy, Barr the door.
by Rick Young | Feb 11, 2020 | Poem
I am the only grad of late Trump University.
At least that’s what he tells me and he won’t return my fee.
He said the courses were on line, kept somewhere on his Twitter.
He blamed me when I could not find and for that I am bitter.
He claims I have advanced degrees in cheating and deception,
that somewhere in the next four years there’ll be a great reception.
He doesn’t give out sheepskins because they’re too hard to eat.
Diplomas come on chicken skin, all crisp, and some have meat.
When asked about a cap and gown, he said no need for that.
Official Trump school uniform is long red tie and hat.
I’m called MAGA cum laude, have my own fraternity.
He charged me for induction after telling me it’s free.
I’m going to find the campus and protest his phony biz.
But I have looked all over and he won’t say where it is.
Calm down, he said, this will look quite good on your resume.
But every interviewer laughs and sends me straight away.
I even caught flack hanging my diploma on the wall.
“That thing just smells, my mother yells”, “Please put it in the hall.”
I’m disappointed there will be no meetings with alums.
As scams go, this one takes the cake and doesn’t leave no crumbs.
by Rick Young | Feb 10, 2020 | Poem
Dixville Notch, the nation’s crotch,
is set to cast first vote.
The process, which they seldom botch,
is let five bottles float.
With picks inside, they ride the tide
along New Hampshire’s shore.
‘Til someone finds them, brings inside,
and then we know the score.
It may be days or even weeks
before they wash back in.
And every eager candidate
seeks those five votes to win.
The tiny town retains its crown
way up there in the sticks.
While bigger cities tear them down
as just a bunch of hicks.
But Dixville Notchers won’t be cowed
by them there city slicks.
They savor every vote allowed.
Some day there might be six.
