by Rick Young | Jun 30, 2020 | Poem
The king heads to Mount Rushmore on the third.
He wants to shit on their heads like a bird.
The giant three slave owners,
enough to give him boners;
he likes the fact they won’t get in a word.
The worry is he’ll climb up on their faces,
searching for the one that he replaces.
The best bet is old Abe, emancipation’s babe.
The king would like to modify his stasis.
“Then I’ll be number one,”
(points up with tiny thumb)
“the top Republican chief of all time.”
He’ll plant a couple caps,
wipe Lincoln off the maps,
and say it was a joke and not a crime.
by Rick Young | Jun 29, 2020 | Poem
One-hundred-fifty fighter jets will fly over D.C.
They’ll all be dropping pamphlets that say, “Get out of jail free!”
A red-faced horde of sycophants will do the MAGA dance.
Mike Pence will nod his head and smile as if he’s in a trance.
Mini tanks will crush a group of mannequin protestors.
William Barr will sell his soul and ask for more investors.
The flattened curve will be rolled out and used for kiddie rides.
The king has asked they don’t wear masks, or else he’ll tan their hides.
A small parade of golf cart seniles will all chant, “White Power!”
Looking for clowns, Eric will, of course, be lost one hour.
Stars and stripes and bars and snakes will be most proudly waved.
The king will rant about the great great monuments he’s saved.
And, as the grand finale, he’ll do something he likes best,
unleash a squad of armored cops, put ‘thugs’ under arrest.
So, be aware, and do take care, if you take to the street.
D.C. in flames, amongst endgames, might seem to him quite sweet.
by Rick Young | Jun 26, 2020 | Poem
Take away our health care at the crux of the pandemic,
erasing all Obama’s done with malice most systemic,
the blatant boss of all that’s lost is king of the unkind,
and lighting fires everywhere that he can leave behind.
His legacy will be a black hole in the Constitution,
which he will brag of endlessly when in the institution.
His processed head will wind up on the Rushmore wall of evil,
between Jeffrey Daumer and the long-snouted boll weevil.
One hundred twenty thousand dead and infrastructure rotting,
but he has not one healing plan amidst his vicious plotting.
The privileged will inherit Earth in his cruel life’s rendition.
He’s our bedsore, a money whore, our country’s precondition.
If he should lie before we wake, it comes as no surprise.
He’d kill us all, we must stand tall and open up our eyes.
What he will do before November will take years to fix.
He doesn’t mind. He’s lost his mind. He does it all for kicks.
by Rick Young | Jun 25, 2020 | Song
Ducks fly south and geese fly north.
Don’t know why this back and forth.
Hawks fly east and doves fly west.
There’s one bird that flew the best.
THE DODO. Yes, the dodo,
the whole avian kingdom’s Quasimodo.
That bird in his prime was not the chub you see in books.
He flew like a pigeon and his bill was off the hook.
On his isle, there was no vile predator to fear.
So, he gained weight, became ground-bound and drank a lot of beer.
THE DODO. Weep for the dodo.
Modelo, for him, became a no-no.
Dutch landed sailors got them drunk on Grolsch and Amstel Lite.
The birds, grown fat, no longer flew nor put up a good fight.
Extinction now leaves only skulls and bones to understand.
Lewis Carroll gave his face to them in Wonderland.
THE DODO. Say goodbye dodo,
The only one who’s seen one since is Frodo.
by Rick Young | Jun 25, 2020 | Poetry, Posthumous Additions
The Feds have found a whole new way to keep us in the red.
They sent a million stimulus checks out to people dead.
More than a billion dollars worth. The IRS is ripped.
We’d like to send it back but grandpa winterized his crypt.
With his noted history of evil machinations,
perhaps Drumpf meant this all along as post-life reparations.
