by Rick Young | Dec 22, 2019 | Poem
Christmas day is sneaking up.
Santa’s got his egg nog cup.
Mrs. S says with a sigh,
“You might be too drunk to fly.”
Jolly Santa says, “Ho, Ho.”
He’s been laying in the snow.
‘Making angels,’ he’ll relate.
But he just can’t stay up straight.
All these years of reindeer gas,
in his cockpit near their ass,
makes him wary of the sky.
Now he is too drunk to fly.
All the elves can’t get him sober.
Old St. Nick keeps falling over.
He’s had way too much libation
for chimney negotiation.
They’re afraid too much wassail
just might wind him up in jail.
There are rules up in the sky.
He could get an FUI.
Looking at his reindeer crew,
Blitzen might be loaded, too.
It looks like the holidays
might be lost in drunken haze.
‘Til a little elf named Fern
shows up with a coffee urn.
“We’ll just fill him with caffeine
until his whole system’s clean.”
In twelve hours, clear of eye,
Santa will be set to fly.
Rudolph plants a mental seed:
“Next year we should get him weed.”
by Rick Young | Dec 20, 2019 | Poem
The week ebbs out in sunsets
from sea to plastic sea.
The government is broken.
Goodnight democracy.
Tomorrow there’ll be riots
and looted goods for free.
Who knows what side the police are on?
Goodnight democracy.
Elections have been rendered null
by mass duplicity.
The voters are now in the street.
Goodnight democracy.
There’s broken glass and smoking grass
from Maine to Kankakee.
The rich can cover their own ass.
The poor more likely flee.
Quite soon they’ll seal the borders,
bring in artillery.
Who’ll give or obey orders?
Goodnight democracy.
There hasn’t been a scene like this
since Boston dumped its tea.
It’s either mountain or abyss.
Goodnight democracy.
by Rick Young | Dec 13, 2019 | Poem
In the air there’s pre-impeachment smell.
Children play with Nadler and Schiff toys.
Orange tweets as if one foot in hell,
scolding all the donkey girls and boys.
He is screaming, “I’ll get you, my pretties!
I hate scum no matter what the age is.”
He’ll now invade sanctuary cities,
throwing leftist sugarplums in cages.
There will be no presents for the needy.
Only one percenters hear his sleigh.
“Christmas time is only for the greedy.
And, if you don’t like it, go away!”
He made just one new year’s resolution,
give each Democrat a lump of coal.
Moscow Mitch will lead a revolution,
stripping this whole country of its soul.
In his kingdom, we are merely elves,
working in the markets of the rich.
Soon there’ll be spy cams on all the shelves.
Fascist Holidays. Hey, life’s a bitch.
by Rick Young | Nov 21, 2019 | Poem
Ukraine on the brain
causes Democratic pain.
Ambassador smeared by Rudy
was called home, relieved of duty.
Three amigos were inserted,
funds for weapons then diverted.
If they do a favor, though,
U.S. will release the dough.
Just get dirt on Biden’s son.
Stop Joe’s presidential run.
Take the blame off Russia’s tricks
in the last election fix.
Prez Zelenskiy, be a honey.
Quid pro quo will get your money.
by Rick Young | Oct 30, 2019 | Poem
My creeping paranoia may become an ailment soon.
I’ll be sentenced to a Bates Motel-like cell of doom.
Everything, I’ve realized, has been a total sham,
organized, through history, by Uncle Sam I Am.
I danced through school the total fool and fell into the war.
I didn’t know a thing of life or what its rules were for.
I soon found out that in was out and up was often down.
The stealer was the healer. The hero was the clown.
I took to shelter, helter skelter, life in dreams my den.
Some years ago I was at peace. I can’t remember when.
by Rick Young | Oct 12, 2019 | Poem, Posthumous Additions
It’s all untethered.
His hair is feathered.
His cheeks are golden,
his eyes beholden,
his fingers teeny,
just like his weenie.
He’s your very worst nightmare,
The Three Bad Wishes Genie.
In his teeth are diamond nuggets.
Up his nose are smoke and coal.
He pees processed oil in buckets
Demolition is The Goal.
He’ll dig deep down to hell unknown
to make the very core his own.
He thinks he is the judgement day.
How can we not stand in the way?
