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.
