by Rick Young | May 6, 2020 | Story
Betsy DeVos is like expired mental floss.
She founders in the dirt from days gone by.
Her changes to Obama title nine rules have a cost.
It makes rape much more fun if you’re a guy.
This is a “fuck you” moment for the MeToo movement, too.
That rapes go unreported is the fear.
The onus on the male shifts now, it’s on the other shoe.
Brett Cavanaugh is probably boofing beer.
Her roots are in soft money and a righteous christian god.
Her Amway founding husband is her source.
With great love for her country, she intends to bear the rod.
There might be vouchers now for intercourse.
She and her husband own a group of brain performance centers.
She thinks schools should have guns to combat bears.
Her family owns ten yachts. She lists Chris Craft and God as mentors.
Her maiden name, Prince. Hence the crown she wears.
by Rick Young | May 3, 2020 | Story
(“everyone to get from the streets”)
The murder hornets are coming !
It’s just what the doctor ordered.
The honey bees are bumming.
Decapitation’s sordid.
They’re on their way from overseas.
They might give you a buzz.
They might not give you a disease.
But they will sting you, cuz.
Two-inch long and orange headed,
cloaked in shiny black.
You can see where this is headed,
if I don’t turn back.
Easy now, it’s killer hornets
who’re the present threat.
Don’t be greeting them with cornets.
They’re the big bad bet.
This time we must be prepared,
and ready for the swarm.
These things, too, will not be scared
off when the weather’s warm.
by Rick Young | Apr 26, 2020 | Story
Where has Doctor Fauci gone?
This week he was off the lawn.
Without him we have no voice,
inject bleach our only choice ?
Maybe he’s in forced lockdown,
caged and tied up by the clown.
I don’t think this thought too often,
but he’d fit in a small coffin.
Tied into a podium,
stuffed with lye and sodium,
he could be tossed out to sea.
Goodbye, Mariner Fauci.
Maybe he’s just lying low,
guarded by a goon named Joe.
Maybe on extended rounds?
Need we search the White House grounds?
If he’s not at Monday’s ‘presser,’
we’ll be seeking a confessor.
Bring our fine physician back,
or we’ll commence our attack.
Check for orange fingerprints,
nylon hair and other hints.
Pray that he is still alive.
Bring him back now, forty-five!
by Rick Young | Apr 23, 2020 | Story
Go ahead and bet your stimulus check.
A grand just will not do it, so go crazy,
what the heck.
However, there’s no horses racing.
Blame the social distance spacing.
Baseball, even football, might be gone.
Pubs are closed, so there’s no darts.
Bookmakers have closed their charts.
Maybe bet on Jarts out on the lawn?
There must be a worldwide pool based on the over/under.
Things get sick, and really quick when everything’s asunder.
But these statistics won’t resolve until the plague has passed.
And, by that time, the best bet is your check’s not gonna last.
So, go and spend your money on some other stimuli.
Go down to the corner, see the guy who knows a guy.
Buy two dozen blackbirds, maybe, bake ’em in a pie.
Bet the wad with god on all the teardrops that you’ll cry.
The check is not a bolster or a perk.
It’s just another joke that doesn’t work.
Try licking off the signature to see if you’ll get high.
Worst thing that could happen, you’ll choke on his name and die.
by Rick Young | Apr 15, 2020 | Story
I need to check my stimuli. Nothing I’ve seen caught my eye,
His daily brief will get me seething, elevate my measured breathing.
How he rolls their questions under, facts and logic hacks asunder.
Cup of truth in seas of lies. How he rolls his white-rimmed eyes.
Stands as if he’s comatose, sneer to leer to just morose.
Questions when he has no answers, hands the mike off to his dancers.
They then tap around the stage, trying to subdue his rage.
Fake news is his battle cry, subtle as an old black eye.
Pointing like a brash dictator. You will get your answer later.
Doctor Fauci, under wraps, in his eyes, his theme song, “Taps.”
When he’s dressing down reporters, it’s like Psychos Without Borders.
Telling women they’re disgusting, while he’s salivating, lusting.
Presentations filled with lies. Master class in alibis.
He’s rewriting, day by day, what we see and others say.
As for deaths, he’ll up the score. Like to pass the Civil War.
He’ll claim he’s the president who saved the whole continent.
He’s found a new way to wealth. Betting on his country’s health.
Somewhere there’s a worldwide pool where he plays us for the fool.
Billions bet, the world asunder, on the death line, over/under.
Says that we will win this race. See us right now, in first place.
by Rick Young | Apr 8, 2020 | Story
I’m not a worrier, but he gets slurrier
each and every time he speaks.
I have suspicion a tiny furrier
lives inside the hollow ‘tween his septum and his cheeks.
The way he stands has been explained
as a man who wears back braces and Depends.
No empathy. The man is pained.
But he’s leaking shit, it seems, from every end.
Won’t wear a mask when he is asked.
No rule has ever kept him off his path.
He goes about the things he’s tasked.
Don’t even want to think about his bath.
The way he reads, like a fourth grader,
reading from his book report on scams,
makes handlers note, a little later,
up his Adderall a couple grams.
And one last thing, his shoe inserts,
there to make him think that he is tall,
another reason he stays inert,
’cause one false step, the Orange Man will fall.
