by Rick Young | Dec 31, 2019 | Obit
Twenty twenty could be our last time
through the rotation;
“E Pluribus Whatever Crimes,”
the motto of the nation.
To think back how we stole this land
and built it up to rockets.
Our time is but a one-night stand,
small change in cosmos pockets.
And now we’re down to oligarchs
and monoliths in power.
The atmosphere is full of sparks
in gasoline’s last hour.
by Rick Young | Dec 27, 2019 | Story
We celebrated Boxing Day
in a fairly normal way.
Put on gloves, got in the ring,
danced a bit, began to swing.
After landing several jabs,
we both took a couple tabs.
Next thing you know, we’re inside
boxes, boxes, tall and wide.
Boxes, boxes, everywhere,
like an Amazon nightmare.
Box of turtles, box of frogs,
ancient box of Lincoln logs.
In some boxes made of pine
some old relatives recline.
In a box unopened yet,
came a scream, “Nyet, nyet !”
Had to see what made that noise.
It was filled with Putin toys.
But we deemed these dolls no fun,
mailed them back to Washington.
Of course we’d see them in a while,
playing at the Senate trial.
It was just a mailing glitch.
They were meant for Moscow Mitch.
by Rick Young | Dec 22, 2019 | Poem
Christmas day is sneaking up.
Santa’s got his egg nog cup.
Mrs. S says with a sigh,
“You might be too drunk to fly.”
Jolly Santa says, “Ho, Ho.”
He’s been laying in the snow.
‘Making angels,’ he’ll relate.
But he just can’t stay up straight.
All these years of reindeer gas,
in his cockpit near their ass,
makes him wary of the sky.
Now he is too drunk to fly.
All the elves can’t get him sober.
Old St. Nick keeps falling over.
He’s had way too much libation
for chimney negotiation.
They’re afraid too much wassail
just might wind him up in jail.
There are rules up in the sky.
He could get an FUI.
Looking at his reindeer crew,
Blitzen might be loaded, too.
It looks like the holidays
might be lost in drunken haze.
‘Til a little elf named Fern
shows up with a coffee urn.
“We’ll just fill him with caffeine
until his whole system’s clean.”
In twelve hours, clear of eye,
Santa will be set to fly.
Rudolph plants a mental seed:
“Next year we should get him weed.”
by Rick Young | Dec 20, 2019 | Poem
The week ebbs out in sunsets
from sea to plastic sea.
The government is broken.
Goodnight democracy.
Tomorrow there’ll be riots
and looted goods for free.
Who knows what side the police are on?
Goodnight democracy.
Elections have been rendered null
by mass duplicity.
The voters are now in the street.
Goodnight democracy.
There’s broken glass and smoking grass
from Maine to Kankakee.
The rich can cover their own ass.
The poor more likely flee.
Quite soon they’ll seal the borders,
bring in artillery.
Who’ll give or obey orders?
Goodnight democracy.
There hasn’t been a scene like this
since Boston dumped its tea.
It’s either mountain or abyss.
Goodnight democracy.
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.
