by Rick Young | Mar 8, 2020 | Poem
I’m on a self-imposed Trump quarantine.
It seemed his medicine would make me mean.
Just to see his mug would make me get the bug.
So, I’m afraid I’ll have to quit his scene.
I’ll spend more quality time with Mike Pence.
Trump may be a wall, but he’s a fence.
You can see right through him in some light.
Creationism’s knight of all things white.
And, for chuckles, there is always Mick,
exiled, off to Ireland, real quick.
Go hang out with Boris and Macron.
There you can get your quid pro quo on.
by Rick Young | Mar 7, 2020 | Poem
Democratic Saving Time is creeping up upon us,
when we set the clocks ahead four years.
We who lost a lot of sleep aboard the anti-don bus
can now discard our busted hopes and fears.
Waking up the next morn, we’ll remember not the nightmare
which infected months, weeks, days and hours,
casting off the subterfuge and lies so bold and bare,
deliberate misuse of his great powers.
Perhaps when time jumps forward, we’ll restore the reputation
of our country, which was once held in esteem.
Perhaps to his victims we can offer reparation,
and put ourselves back on track for the dream.
by Rick Young | Mar 6, 2020 | Song
Trump has a hunch about the virus spread.
The sick aren’t really sick and the dead are playing dead.
It’s all a Democratic trick to get inside his head.
They can’t do that, he says, because he’s had it lined with lead.
They’re pumping up the numbers to impair his sure election.
The dead will rise, that’s no surprise, it’s zombie resurrection.
They’ll storm election polls with noses dripping from their face,
and use the virus hoax to try to scare away his base.
“I have a hunch my MAGA people will put up a fight,
they know I am the chosen one. This virus they shall smite.
And good Mike Pence, our plague defense, will keep the numbers low.
The dead will all be buried in his cornfields, row by row.
No virus. No virus. This virus is fake news.
It’s only flu. Boo-hoo. Boo-hoo. You got the fake plague blues.”
by Rick Young | Mar 5, 2020 | Poem
Word just came that Liz quit the presidential biz
to join with mister money on the sideline.
Goodbye to wealth tax thrown into the deep unknown.
Goodbye to child care and student debt guideline.
Her numbers became dire though she threw Mike in the fire,
but the dream of White House woman is on hold.
Perhaps in four more years when the smoke from this one clears
her propositions won’t be shunned but recognized as bold.
by Rick Young | Mar 4, 2020 | Poem, Uncategorized
Biden’s head is full of plugs.
Some say he needs memory drugs.
But he’s getting the black vote,
hanging on Obama’s coat.
Wait ’til Donald roasts his son,
puts him on a Hunter bun.
“Oh, Burisma!” he’ll erupt.
“So bad. So sad. So corrupt.”
Joe might call him a damned fool.
But to Trump, that’s just old school.
He’ll use all means underhanded
to make sure “Sleepy” is branded.
He’ll go after family ties,
hoping that Joe breaks and cries.
In a fight behind the gym,
Trump would cheat and probably win.
Razor wire on his belt buckles,
pepper spray and gold brass knuckles.
If they got to pulling hair,
they’d reveal that nothing’s there.
In a test of chicken eating,
Joe would take an awful beating.
Don will claim the country knows
Joe’s dressed up in Barack’s clothes.
Debate interest surely grows
if they might, indeed, trade blows.
Joe knows one place that he’s best:
in the big wind tunnel test.
