by Rick Young | Sep 3, 2020 | Song
If you want to be nice, you could vote for me twice
while I work out my kill-the-mail scheme.
I’m the nightmare the hippies saw coming,
the anti-Amerikan dream.
I’ll blow up all racial pretensions
and continue to subvert the law.
With my planeload of dark thugs inventions,
I can drop the fake newsmaker’s jaw.
I’ll constantly name drop ANTIFA,
make suburbs sense fear in the night.
I’ll kick things around more than FIFA.
Two lies make a wrong thing seem right.
I’ll spur on my good boys with long guns
to keep any protest in hand,
tell my police whenever a perp runs,
he’s got to know that’s his last stand.
I’m turning all purloined mail cases
into immigrant child B & B’s.
First we must spray mace in their faces,
to make sure that they don’t have fleas.
All disappeared looters in Dem towns
will not be found on voter rolls.
We’ve long ago disposed of those clowns.
They’ve been sold as fishermen’s trolls.
I can’t wait to get back at congress.
In my second term they will die.
I will torture the ones who were wrongest,
and record, like George Floyd, when they cry.
For those who think I’ll be outvoted,
I guess you don’t know me too well.
You will be from life rolls demoted
and sentenced to non-random hell.
(CHORUS)
My next inauguration will be the best, of course.
Any citizen not there risks Homeland Defense Force.
They’ll be bred as worker bees and caged next to the Wall.
I can’t believe you peasants didn’t sense this in the fall.
by Rick Young | Aug 4, 2020 | Song
Well, I woke to see fed troops
In camo clashing,
in a downtown Portland street.
There were children chanting
and mothers marching
And protestors being beat.
There were blunt munitions
being fired
and tear gas on the breeze.
Look at Law and Order on the loose
In the twenty-first century.
Look at Law and Order on the loose
In the twenty-first century.
I was running from their vicious clubbing;
they had pepper sprayed my eyes.
I was out to seek a sane world,
penetrating all the lies.
This was a land splaying blue and red
And with tension getting high.
I was thinking about what
our leader said
and just knowing it was a lie.
Thinking about what
our leader said,
I was sure that it was a lie.
Well, I saw a number
of my brothers, sisters,
being thrown in unmarked vans.
There were people crying
projectiles flying,
It was all way out of hand.
It’s not a dream, no, not a dream
Op Legend had begun.
They were testing out
a desperate despot’s scheme:
Hide the flag behind the gun.
Overwhelmed by evil Silver greed,
Democracy on the run.
by Rick Young | Jul 20, 2020 | Song
“I will eventually be right.”
Our population might be slight.
Then I can reign them in real tight.
Which is the purpose of my fight.
I’d like to get it down to two percent.
I think that’s what the founding fathers meant.
We’ll build a wall of dead, then pour cement.
To think that people said I was hell-bent!
The midlands decorated with mass graves.
The country back again to rich and slaves.
This is how stable genius behaves.
And what the wise illuminati craves.
We’ll make a profit from the skin compost.
Perhaps a restaurant where I’m the host.
I’d like to party with Jeff Epstein’s ghost.
He was a dude who loved his kids the most.
We’ll hold a party for the sheiks and kings.
They’ll all drink absinthe as prince Yeezy sings.
He’ll sing that tune about what virus brings.
I swear the dude is wearing twelve gold rings.
We’ll have a time of mourning for the dead.
I will repeat some shit that’s in my head.
Maybe I’ll take my daughter queen to bed.
When I shot Jared, that boy really bled.
The new America renamed Trump Land.
I’ll march the street leading an oompah band.
They’ll want to shake my surgically large hand.
My new protector will be Saint Paul, Rand.
Boss Mitch McConnell will help shape the nation.
He’d like to turn it into one plantation.
If they are good, the help may earn vacation.
And they will surely love our work song station.
There’ll be no army ’cause there’ll be no war.
I’ll be dictators’ lover and their whore.
When we’ve divided what we’re looking for.
Our worldwide anthem will be “Steal, Shoot, Score!”
For those who voted my ass into power.
I’m sorry that you’re mostly dead this hour.
I do hope you enjoyed the rocket shower.
Filmed home invasions where I watched you cower.
I like Miami, but New York I love.
Cherish the moment when I hung the gov.
And, then, my holiday, the Mass Grave Shove.
Once weekly, paupers can still kiss my glove.
by Rick Young | Jul 3, 2020 | Posthumous Additions, Song
Oh, first I went and shot a quail.
And then I sent it in the mail.
And now I’m looking for some bail.
I guess that was an epic fail.
Quail, quail, everybody rail!
This is the chorus of the mailed quail’s tale.
Good sir, I did not realize
one could not shoot a bird that flies.
And for that I apologize.
In future times, I’ll be more wise.
O, it was not so much the killing,
but the mailing got you illing?
I find that assessment chilling.
Birds can fly air mail if willing.
Quail, quail, everybody rail!
This is the chorus of the mailed quail’s tale.
Good sir, I had to mail that beast
to a destination east.
It was his last wish at least
that he make the family feast.
But, if my actions still give pause,
arrest me and all my in-laws.
If one last banquet’s not good cause,
throw me in the eagle’s claws.
Quail, quail, everybody rail!
This is the ending of the mailed quail’s tale.
by Rick Young | Jul 2, 2020 | Song
Please don’t kill my darling filibuster,
says Moscow Mitch with what poise he can muster.
Just put yourself in my shoes, he will bluster.
But, soon, he’ll be abandoned, just like Custer.
He’s afraid Dem Sens will stampede left,
and take away the bullshit they can heft.
Abolishing obstruction would be deft,
leaving him defenseless, senseless and bereft.
You’ll regret it if you change our ways,
says Mitch in fear of minority days.
He used that veto power like a craze.
But now he’s old and this is a new phase.
by Rick Young | Jun 25, 2020 | Song
Ducks fly south and geese fly north.
Don’t know why this back and forth.
Hawks fly east and doves fly west.
There’s one bird that flew the best.
THE DODO. Yes, the dodo,
the whole avian kingdom’s Quasimodo.
That bird in his prime was not the chub you see in books.
He flew like a pigeon and his bill was off the hook.
On his isle, there was no vile predator to fear.
So, he gained weight, became ground-bound and drank a lot of beer.
THE DODO. Weep for the dodo.
Modelo, for him, became a no-no.
Dutch landed sailors got them drunk on Grolsch and Amstel Lite.
The birds, grown fat, no longer flew nor put up a good fight.
Extinction now leaves only skulls and bones to understand.
Lewis Carroll gave his face to them in Wonderland.
THE DODO. Say goodbye dodo,
The only one who’s seen one since is Frodo.
