by Rick Young | Mar 26, 2020 | Poem
Trump’s fireside chats
are driving me bats.
A lumbering leech eyeing docs.
He’s probably wearing red underwear
and black with a toe hole silk socks.
He nods and he squints like the inkling he had
is rapidly trickling away.
He knows in a minute he could look real bad,
unless he finds something to say.
His handlers creep up behind him.
His blood pressure’s right off the charts.
They might have to tether or bind him,
or subdue with medical darts.
Before he goes off on a blue bunny rant
or swears love to evil portenders,
they’ll give him a jolt that assures that he cant.
And now for a word from our vendors.
by Rick Young | Mar 25, 2020 | Song
Been drivin’ all night with a thorn in my side.
Been drivin’ all night with a thorn in my side.
Looked over at the passenger side
and Jesus had died.
What would we do now, I got him too drunk at the dance.
Tried to get him to waltz but he hovered ‘bove the ground in a trance.
The only time that it was fine was when the rowdy fellows yelled for wine.
And then the place was flooded with Merlot as if by happenstance.
I told him I was blitzed at ten, he said, “I’m crucified.”
The bouncer said an hour later he’d looked like he’d died.
“Here, put him on this cross and we can move him through the back outside.”
Now out here in the desert, I’m just hangin’ him like a kite.
Now out here in the desert, I’m just hangin’ him like a kite.
It sure’ll dry him out
but it just does not seem right.
by Rick Young | Mar 24, 2020 | Obit
In three weeks, we can work while we are sick.
Or so says mister bungle, our head prick.
Don’t worry ’bout the spread,
we don’t want business dead.
So let it kill the weak, like Mitt or Mick.
You’ll walk into a store that’s full of germs.
No coughing while inside. Those are the terms.
Your hairdresser, say, may look three shades of gray,
and croak, “we’ve got a special now on perms.”
Or maybe you need certain kinds of juices.
You jump onto a tram filled with papooses.
Then go in to a shop that’s filled with COVID pop,
and decorated, ceiling down, with nooses.
Oh look, the market’s surging back ahead.
They’re bidding on the bodies of the dead.
Before a carcass swells, they make quite fine hotels,
not fancy, just a bodybag-like bed.
And, back on top are gasoline and oil.
It’s best to burn a corpse and not to boil.
The theatre is back on, but don’t go to the john.
Afraid what’s in there might the third act spoil.
‘Normal’ life will brim with the excitement.
Down the road there will be an indictment.
We knew we should have hidden,
but did as we were bidden.
A barren planet was his mad entitlement.
by Rick Young | Mar 23, 2020 | Poem
My thinking cap’s been on a nap,
or else I think of dying.
I get up like a normal chap,
then back to bed go, sighing.
I really hate to watch the news,
though nothing else is on.
Most every day I’ve got the blues,
and now I can’t blame Don.
It’s come to where my mind goes bare
and hunts conspiracy,
like it’s a vapor released where
those live who disagree.
We need statistics on the trends
on who gets sick and who stays well.
If those untouched are his friends,
then we’re inside a living hell.
Could this be a plot
to simply cancel all elections?
Let the liberals rot
while offering his friends protections?
Could it be he’d kill the world
consolidating power?
And maybe his pal Vlad unfurled
this deadly dream so dour.
It could be they’ll rule the ravaged earth
from west to east.
Perhaps they were destined from their birth.
Marks of the Beast.
by Rick Young | Mar 21, 2020 | Poem
Drop out, Bernie. It’s too late.
Get some social distance.
Your ideas have to wait.
Build up your resistance.
If the world survives this test,
you might run again.
So your platform was the best,
but you couldn’t win.
If you run at eighty-three,
they’ll call you insane,
the only candidate around
who recalls The Maine.
Your young base will keep their pace,
perhaps repair our schism.
In four years our saving grace
might be socialism.
Free school for the living,
health care for the masses.
Government that’s warm and giving,
not like present asses.
Quarantine and watch the scene
as Trump and Biden battle.
Pray that gods will intervene
and we won’t die like cattle.
In four years, we’ll know the score.
You’ll survive to change the core.
Live so life goes on once more.
Vote for Bernie, twenty-four.
