by Rick Young | Jan 31, 2017 | Song
Here we come
Marching down the street.
We’re gonna check the I.D.’s of
Everyone we meet.
Hey, hey, we’re the fascists
And we’re not going to monkey around.
You’d better listen to us
Or we will put you down.
We say whatever we want to
And do what we have to do.
We don’t have time for your protests.
We’re compiling a file on you.
Hey, hey, we’re the fascists
And we are now in power, yup.
You had better do as we say
Or else we’re going to lock you up.
We’re just trying to protect you
From people who are foreign or gay.
We’re the ones you elected
And you have nothing to say.
"Any time
Or anywhere
Just Look over your shoulder
Guess who’ll be standing there?" *
(*lyric by Boyce and Hart)
by Rick Young | Jan 30, 2017 | Poem
That’s a dirty dog ball,
please don’t pick it up!
Lord only knows what kind of germs
might reside in that pup.
No, no, no, my son,
don’t get that near your face!
You’ll get some strange dog disease
impossible to trace.
Oh, my God, did I just see you
lick that with your tongue?
You’ll wind up in the E.R.
inside an iron lung.
Maybe you are right; it can’t be
any worse than paste.
Pass that dog ball over here
and let me have a taste.
by Rick Young | Jan 29, 2017 | Poem
Dragged on down the morning hill by shadows,
the waking songs of love grind us to tears.
So much happens when we’ve got our heads turned.
A sudden silent burst of birds appears.
Bone bare branches wave the clouds like traffic.
Footsteps timed and hands held, we sashay.
Rocks, stones, pebbles, sand, ground all approve this.
Missing stars affirm: gray is okay.
by Rick Young | Jan 28, 2017 | Poem
The year of the rooster
could be like a rocket booster,
a launch into the perilous unknown.
What with the selection
of a crude orange erection,
we’ve lifted off into the twilight zone.
A strutting bandy tweeting unto dawn
with billionaires surrounding him to fawn
could turn this lunar year into disaster.
He’ll stock the farm with nukes
and fill the coop with kooks,
a game of chicken in which he’s the master.
by Rick Young | Jan 27, 2017 | Poem
Please don’t pull the plug on your sick llamas,
or blame their poor health on the Obamas.
Dress them up in their finest pajamas
and then send them off to the Bahamas.
Animals do quite enjoy vacations,
especially those in other nations.
They gain some awareness of their stations
and vastly improve imaginations.
They’ll return in somewhat better health,
having spent up your entire wealth.
But you must approach them with some stealth.
‘Cause they likely brought you back seashellth.
