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 14, 2020 | Poem
New York rats are now eating each other.
“Just the way I planned it,” claims the Prez.
Jared’s going to film it for a special.
It’ll be on pay-per-view, he says.
They’ll find every way to make a profit,
even in a country torn by plague.
Each designer face mask by Ivanka
costs as much as a Faberge egg.
Rudy got a deal on ventilators,
shipped up here from Mexico by bus.
Not a company many have heard of.
Translates into “Oxygen Is Us.”
Fauci’s been induced into a coma.
He was getting a bit out of hand.
He refused to bow to our great leader,
whose pure vision saved our sacred land.
Next comes the “Open Our Country Council,”
led by Kushners, “Nooch,” and Wilbur Ross.
It will spend much time in contemplation.
That’s if Ben Carson’s appointed boss.
In three weeks, a switch flips and we’re open.
Economy will boom, as good as new.
In four weeks, a rerun we weren’t hoping:
Welcome to Corona Virus II.
by Rick Young | Apr 12, 2020 | Poem
He loves to preside.
As for those who’ve died:
just leave them outside.
The tent is his show.
There won’t be no ponies,
but a lot of phonies,
and all his tight cronies,
the swamp as you know.
The first ring is lies,
where he death-defies,
just spinning in air
his spurious deeds.
Then in comes the lion,
an Elder of Zion,
with more facts to try on.
Contest if you dare.
In ring two, distortion,
defined as contortion,
you won’t get your portion,
but, brother, beware.
They’ll twist facts to pretzels.
Have you buying Edsels,
fill your head with dreadfuls,
until you don’t care.
In ring three the cheaters,
scam glam and tax beaters.
His kids are the greeters.
Consumer beware.
They’ll ask for your wallet.
Black magic, they’ll call it.
No way to forestall it.
All good, they will swear.
And when you leave the tent,
all raging and hell-bent,
you’ll think that the bucks spent
went to a just cause.
It’s called domination,
masked as jubilation.
You’re on the right station.
Now comes a brief pause.
by Rick Young | Apr 11, 2020 | Poem
NyQuil and Pop Rocks,
prescribed by some docs.
Stomach explosion.
Virus erosion.
Soaking in a nice hot tub,
filled to top with VapoRub,
could relieve some chest congestion.
Some have called this into question.
Eyedrops put inside the ears,
followed by some several beers,
might relieve anxiety,
without much propriety.
Ankle weights in pool’s deep end
can relieve that breathing trend.
Fauci says just stay inside,
take the sleep train for a ride.
Save the unproved remedies
for the maga wannabes.
Let them follow doctor T
down his path of infamy.
Any drug he recommends
will make money for his friends.
Do not listen to his raves!
You’ll all end up in mass graves.
by Rick Young | Apr 10, 2020 | Poem
We sold our masks at markup way before this thing began.
And then we started companies to make them back again.
And now we’re selling cure-all pills and stories without oranges,
all backed up by stacked judges, FOX and Republicanosauruses.
Election’s all but cancelled and the roving gangs assemble.
It’s enough to make an old man cry and children tremble.
Disassembled premises are being hacked together,
thrown out like mere test balloons upon the public weather.
Somewhere there’s a castle below ground where they’ll be hiding,
watching as their public disavows all law abiding.
Guns and fools will be the rules, a game show they will tout.
A lot like fake Survivor but with lots more blood about.
Gun sales and the stock market have just begun their thriving.
Melt your pots and pans to shields if you’ve hope of surviving.
When this is through, the dead man stew is going to fill a lake.
Deep underground in their compound, they’ll do the secret shake.
