by Rick Young | Jul 6, 2020 | Poem
Ennio Morricone’s dead, a great blow to his fandom.
“The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly,” should be our current anthem.
Columbus fell in Baltimore, a year after Showalter.
When there’s no Trumpet in the news, these poems start to falter.
We can, of course condemn his constant railings of deceit,
his lumping in with thugs and mugs protesters in the street.
And damn his lying lying lies and flaunting of the law.
His reinterpretation of everything we just saw.
His white flag to the virus, sentencing good souls to death.
His calculated threats to our long freedom’s every breath.
Yes, our spaghetti western’s winding down in tragic fashion,
playing now out in your streets: see fire, guns and smashin’.
The police are not your friends and your friends aren’t who they were.
Entire lives lived in high contrast now are just a blur.
Sometimes words can take two strikes, as if it doesn’t matter.
But it’s the bottom of the ninth. We need a better batter.
by Rick Young | Jul 4, 2020 | Story
Watch out, here comes the Statue Force,
new product of his peeve,
where broken rebels stay the course
so we can proudly grieve.
A garden of the fallen,
traitors, baiters and the like,
will have protesters bawlin’.
It’s a massive dummy strike.
Along with southern founders,
and great heroes of the war,
will be scoundrels, scum and bounders
who knew what this country’s for.
It’s a get-back revolution,
fighting leftist angry mobs,
who’d take away our statues,
wives, sons, mothers and our jobs.
The Statue Force will fight, of course,
for our right to bear arms.
And many do ride horses.
It’s just one of their vast charms.
Our monuments will save us
from this “cancel culture” wave.
Their memory will engrave us
with the silence of the brave.
by Rick Young | Jul 3, 2020 | Poem
This is a hoax.
There’s no blood on my hands.
This red you see…from the Red Sea sands.
I tried to part it but it turned too antsy.
That bastard Moses must have used something really fancy.
For my next miracle, I’ll give my best friends millions,
while mailing out free postage stamps to poor folks by the trillions.
No one has done as much for those people as me.
Amongst the poor I’m second to their great god Wayne Guthrie.
I’ve heard good things about him; it seems like he was fun.
But I’d like the cops to beat the shit out of his son,
like God did to Jeezy, Weezy and those breezy cats,
smote ’em with a thousand stones and several baseball bats.
Anyway, these bloody hands, a hoax flown by the libs.
When I get through with them, they’ll be in pampers and pink bibs.
It’s not that I hate Democrats or hope they will be killed.
Though there’s a few I’d like to see their bodies diced and milled.
It’s just with all their lying and their spying and their tricks,
I can’t have fun with anyone, gangsters, Barr or chicks.
I’d really like to stay and chat, but have to go, because,
I’m flying to the badlands to break all the COVID laws.
Happy fourth to all our fine soldiers, living or dead.
Apologize to those who had a price put on their head.
by Rick Young | Jul 3, 2020 | Poem
We can’t blame the doctor if he needs a long vacation.
He’s been dealing months now with a very stupid nation.
Kids can’t stay indoors now, though that’s all some ever did.
Had to wait for PPE until the proper bid.
And, until this week, we lacked consensus on the mask.
That and social distancing fell to “Don’t tell. Don’t ask.”
The king just will not grace his face with sensible protection.
Throughout this pandemic, he’s been our second infection.
Mike Pence, too, kept us in suspense with his white christian stance.
His whole affect is quite suspect; he might be in a trance.
And dealing with spokesmodel Kayleigh has to be a strain.
She said she’d never do it, but there’s lying on her brain.
And so, Doc, if you want to get away, perhaps go hiking,
there’re many countries where this virus is not spiking.
by Rick Young | Jul 3, 2020 | Posthumous Additions, Song
Oh, first I went and shot a quail.
And then I sent it in the mail.
And now I’m looking for some bail.
I guess that was an epic fail.
Quail, quail, everybody rail!
This is the chorus of the mailed quail’s tale.
Good sir, I did not realize
one could not shoot a bird that flies.
And for that I apologize.
In future times, I’ll be more wise.
O, it was not so much the killing,
but the mailing got you illing?
I find that assessment chilling.
Birds can fly air mail if willing.
Quail, quail, everybody rail!
This is the chorus of the mailed quail’s tale.
Good sir, I had to mail that beast
to a destination east.
It was his last wish at least
that he make the family feast.
But, if my actions still give pause,
arrest me and all my in-laws.
If one last banquet’s not good cause,
throw me in the eagle’s claws.
Quail, quail, everybody rail!
This is the ending of the mailed quail’s tale.
