by Rick Young | Feb 5, 2020 | Song
That’s Faye Wray, heading right this way on a giant monkey sleigh. Looks like a thriller.
The Wu Tang Clan swoop right down on Rodan, and right there by their side is Barney MIller.
And here comes Jerry Lee, that cajun killer bee. It seems he’s put a saddle on Godzilla.
They’ve all joined their forces, and saddled up their horses, then put them on a boat to take Manilla.
Perhaps they’re all cranked up on dope.
They think they’ll find an envelope which may just knock the world off of its axis.
And if the good prevail and don’t get thrown in jail, it contains the holy grail: Trump’s taxes.
Super heroes, don your capes, enough of this sour grapes!
Put on your suit, Kim Jong Un. Rise up from the Black Lagoon.
Wolf Man Letterman arise in your CPA disguise.
It is time now, Bob DeNiro, to be off-screen super hero.
Bernie Sanders, commie jew, storm Internal Revenue.
Get those numbers on this chump. Quasimodo, use your hump.
Nick and Asta, call the wife. He’s been cheating all his life.
Mothra, rise to this occasion. Beat your wings for tax evasion.
Trump, your passport: better stamp it. On your heels comes old Jed Clampett.
Perry Mason, Matlock, too: this may all come down to you.
Once the numbers are in place, Trump will claim a state of grace.
But the numbers do not lie, it’s cited. Odds say forty-five will be indicted.
Ignore all his razzmatazz. Drop him off at Alcatraz. He can’t swim. so don’t get all excited.
by Rick Young | Feb 3, 2020 | Song
Oh say can you see by the Don’s surly fight
Why so proudly we hail all his sly lies and scheming.
Whose broad snipes and bright slurs through the impeachment fight,
O’er his huge wall we watched as his twitter was streaming.
And the rocket’s red glare killed a general somewhere,
Gave proof to the right that he really don’t care.
Oh say does his long red tie ceaselessly wave
o’er a land of the free in a circumstance grave?
by Rick Young | Dec 15, 2019 | Song
Misuse of his power we could chronicle an hour.
Obstruction is the juice that’s in his veins.
In the senate, trial becomes shit shower,
with his pal Moscow Mitch at the reins.
O how Lindsey will spout Graham crackers,
and Jim Jordan cross the Rhine with whine.
The hoax cry will rise from all his backers
’bout that phone call, perfect, not just fine.
In the end the Dems will be rejected,
subjected to lies and ‘facts’ absurd.
Grounds and reason will both be neglected.
Vindicated shouts of Orange Turd.
In the oval office he’ll be seething,
fascist lying smile upon his lips.
Hatred fills the air with just his breathing.
Back to work on the apocalypse.
by Rick Young | Sep 12, 2019 | Posthumous Additions, Song
I love you more than stomach trouble,
Double Bubble or the Hubble.
More than guacamole dip, sit and sip, chocolate chip.
Even more than ham and eggs, cribbage pegs, chicken legs.
Let it be said I love you
more than pools of Mountain Dew.
More than brand new pairs of sneakers
or plush toys with inside squeakers.
More than baseball, more than dice, more than Grey Goose over ice.
Even more than rock on vinyl, I love you and that is final.
Valentines, like Groundhog Day, one more hitch to grab your pay.
Show your love by spending loot. Throw it down the honey shoot.
Everybody kiss and hug. Give her diamonds, you big lug.
Show your heart is in your wallet. Love extortion’s what I call it.
Cards and candy, hearts and flowers, nods to advertising’s powers.
////this could be reconfigured or a refrain extracted? Perhaps titled “Love Extortion” or “Ad Hock”//////////
Love’s extortion is the potion of the day
by Rick Young | May 29, 2019 | Song
I got a canker in Sri Lanka.
I got a blister on K-2.
I thought I might go mad
in old Islamabad.
But I never got sick of you.
You could insult me for an hour,
then make me laugh for two.
You’d join me in the shower
if I wore one shoe.
I got a thousand itches
and I hate me some bitches.
There’s one I really loathe in Timbuktu.
You served me whey and curds
and made me eat my words.
But I never got sick of you.
You put me through my paces,
hooked me up with braces,
made both bad and good dreams
all come true.
It busted up my pride
and made me hot inside.
But I never got sick of you.
by Rick Young | Apr 4, 2019 | Song
Some say that I’m not of these times.
I’m lost in recollections.
Some hear bells but I hear chimes.
I don’t ask for directions.
Now some would like to define me
as nothing but a hoarder.
But I see things that they don’t see.
And everything has order.
While they see piles and tons of crap,
each thing has special meaning.
An eight foot stack of magazines
they only see as leaning.
Each item has its history.
My memories are not crimes.
Inside each life’s a mystery.
I got five hundred dollars in quarters and dimes.
There’s baseball cards and movie stills
and paperbacks from France,
a shoebox full of teenage frills,
a corsage from the dance.
I even saved the glove from when
I shook a singer’s hand.
I don’t even recall his name,
but, man, he had some band.
I even have the knife and fork
saved from my dad’s last supper.
And here’s the poison bottle’s cork.
Not everything’s an upper.
See, everything is organized
by places, deeds and times.
In tins and jars I realized
I got five hundred dollars in quarters and dimes.
Here’s a sack of balls I caught
while sitting in the stands.
And check out all these postcards bought
and sent from foreign lands.
Got photographs of family members
going back a century.
Yes, there’s some no one remembers.
But to toss is blasphemy.
Boxes labeled, cartons tabled,
bags and bags in many places.
Yes my movements are disabled,
but in all things I see faces.
Uncles used these decks of cards,
grandmas wore these jewelry shards,
Every word in this collection rhymes.
I got five hundred dollars in quarters and dimes.
