by Rick Young | Jun 13, 2020 | Song
Covid’s the canary in the coalmine,
opened up our eyes that things are not fine.
Things got out of hand and paralyzed the land.
Emergency responders were our front line.
Then, of course, we opened way too soon,
to appease this economic goon.
He said throw out your masks, and they do what he asks.
The truth is that the virus didn’t swoon.
And then there came the kneeling of the cop.
The t.v. murder blew the nation’s top.
There’s people in the street who will not take a seat
until they see this racial hatred stop.
We finally got the cause that we deserve,
and now’s perhaps the last chance to show nerve.
We cannot let this settle back into the same old kettle.
America, our path must take a curve.
If people take their message to the street,
things might get really hot in summer heat.
Stay strong and don’t back down, the leader is a clown.
This chance for change may not see a repeat.
by Rick Young | Jun 12, 2020 | Poem
His next campaign’s in Tulsa,
the perfect place to be.
He’ll say it was the spot where
he once ended slavery.
More famous, though,
for what had happened, 1921.
Three hundred blacks were massacred,
but he wants campaign fun.
And so, on Juneteenth he’ll be boasting,
to his base and liberal roasting.
He’ll claim love from every creed,
maybe not those deep in need.
He’ll song and dance like vamps in “Thriller,”
words by Stephen ‘Killer’ Miller.
Where’d you rather be instead
of standing on the Tulsa dead?
Oklahoma’s O.K.
But not on this day.
The reasons it’s racist abound.
You just don’t stump on killing ground.
by Rick Young | Jun 11, 2020 | Story
He’s juggling that juggernaut
of big things sold and big things bought.
He owes a lot more than he owns,
which might explain his power jones.
And some of that he owes to mobs.
That’s why his children need good jobs.
They’ve kept him in imported wives,
who may now fear for their own lives.
His excess parties have been taped.
Who knows how many girls he’s raped?
And word is out huge payment’s due
sometime in twenty-twenty-two.
If he’s not still their top gun,
he might just cash his checks and run.
Of all the places he might hide,
a likely mob worm lives inside.
He’ll be flushed out and meet his maker.
That’s the odds for a risk taker.
The words on his memorial:
“He needed a tutorial.”
by Rick Young | Jun 10, 2020 | Story
Now we see why they’re called ‘pigs’ by some.
They get overheated in a scrum.
Swinging clubs to break protesting bones,
military gear gives them cajones.
Wading into crowds can make them vicious.
When did law enforcement turn pernicious?
The friendly policemen you see on t.v.
may not be fun in reality.
The country’s a cold case and surely not a place
you want to be unless you’ve got a gun.
But many folks who don’t quite feel that way
still seem to be shot dead as if for fun.
Oh, sure, there’s good and bad on both sides.
Sometimes that is true.
But bad gets worse. That is the curse.
And then the good die, too.
by Rick Young | Jun 9, 2020 | Poem
His four beats your eight.
That call was really great.
His eight beats your ace.
What a sour face.
His run beats your run.
Because he’s number one.
His full house must win.
Even if Eric’s in.
His flush conquers all.
A bright and fiery ball.
Best throw in your chips.
And button up those lips.
Don’t dare question the deal.
He’ll tell you you’re not real.
He’s playing with just half a deck.
Now ante up your welfare check.
You want yourself a better game.
You’d best go back from where you came.
