by Rick Young | Dec 30, 2016 | Poem
She breeds like centipedes.
She feeds. She needs. She bleeds.
The suffering mother of millions
aims high, perhaps even quadrillions.
Her womb is a room to so many,
it once earned a line from Jack Benny.
Her milk, if collected in jars,
would reach half the distance to Mars.
She has sixty daughters named Millie,
and unisex thousands named Billie.
Though none of ’em strays from her sights,
there’s hardly a handful that writes,
Her life’s been spent spreading her legs.
Who knew she’d contain all those eggs?
There’s sixty-five daughters named Janet.
Her spawn are all swarming the planet.
God bless you, good mother of millions.
Surprisingly, most are Sicilians.
by Rick Young | Dec 29, 2016 | Poem
Can you write me a prescription,
doc, for some dilaudid, please?
I heard it helped with Elvis.
I have trouble with my knees.
And maybe a few percodans
would help me with my head.
But if you’re running low on those,
darvon will do instead.
Of course I’ll need some valium
to quell this morning shake.
I always wake up groggy
from the sleeping pills I take.
And, while you’re at it,
opiods and pill form THC
would really ease my ailments,
doc; they’ll be the death of me.
by Rick Young | Dec 28, 2016 | Poem
T’was the night of seismics
that we all lucked out,
seeking entertainment
in the underground,
came upon a dark
spontaneous cabaret
even all the locals
had been mum about,
where we saw a small girl
with a broken leg
sing so eloquently
on her fishbowl life,
it was evident that
we had all been changed.
First we cried and laughed
and then we signed her cast.
by Rick Young | Dec 27, 2016 | Poem
Kind castles create bland rulers.
The harsh flag scoffs at victory.
Prepare to die by poison ideas.
The armor of the future is speed.
Pure evil is the fulcrum of doubt.
Get over it: forget the Alamo.
Loose troops sink ships’ shapes.
Bomb patterns make lovely quilts.
A nation of spies has much in common.
Death works well as a diversion.
Peace is the luxury of also rans.
When the blood market wanes, open veins.
The only good gun is a used one.
Defeat is the posture of disease.
by Rick Young | Dec 26, 2016 | Poem
Pebbles married Pogo and upgraded to a swamp.
Scooby Doo and Snoopy had a wedding with much pomp.
Daisy Duck wed Road Runner; it happened much too fast.
Sluggo married Orphan Annie; it’ll never last.
Dennis hitched with Lucy and got into S&M.
Elroy Jetson/ Little Lulu; hey, good luck to them.
Archie did choose Betty, left Veronica in tears.
Dilbert married Mary Worth; he’d had too many beers.
Dora the Explorer ran away with Richie Rich.
Underdog at last made Pretty Polly his true bitch.
Steve Canyon finally came to earth, eloped with Brenda Starr.
Daffy Duck, en route to chapel, got hit by a car.
Tinker Bell (this hurts like hell) wed crazed Woody Woodpecker.
Betty Boop and Alley Oop bought their first double decker.
Sure, there’s guys who’ll never marry, just to name a few:
Bluto, Beetle Bailey, Goofy, Hulk, Mister Magoo.
And many a cartoon woman will stay an old maid,
sure the Jugheads of their world simply don’t make the grade.
by Rick Young | Dec 25, 2016 | Poem
Some nights, I just want to drink some Drano.
The world feels like one massive backed-up sink.
I wonder if I have gone insane, oh,
what’s the use is often what I think.
But alas, some intricate reflection
will convey life’s beauty to my head.
After a bit of introspection,
I realize it’s no help being dead.
There are things to do to make life better,
even if it’s on a minute scale.
When the world around us is on fire,
everyone needs to pick up a pail.
Safety is, indeed, the seed of numbers.
Sanity will often tip the scales.
History says when the power slumbers
truth can knock their carriage off the rails.
And so, tonight, I’ll go out draining,
but not in a self destructive way.
Evil at the moment might be reigning.
But, like always, they will have their day.
