by Rick Young | Aug 17, 2020 | Story
They say that Jeffrey Epstein was smothered by My Pillow.
His ashes will be spread on Pedo Isle.
That’s if they find his body, last seen in Amarillo,
and probably headed southward for a while.
They say a lot of famous folks spent time at Jeff’s resort.
Word has it that shuffleboard was not the favorite sport.
Perhaps a My Pillow propped on every cabin bed
could be used to suppress screams when placed over a head.
These were small heads, must remember, outsized by My Pillow.
Go to sleep, my little beauty. Rest, my weeping willow.
by Rick Young | Aug 16, 2020 | Poem
Mail-in Fraud’s demon god
will spit venom daily,
like William S. Paley,
threateningly, gaily.
He is sending signals
in his ever-changing hair.
Had to cut his ties with ties.
Deep surveillance there.
He’s rounding-up mail boxes
for a hostage situation,
first extortion broadcast live
on every FOX news station.
A caravan of migrant
postal workers heading north
may be employed to best avoid
miscounting and so forth.
Just stand in line and get your shots
and keep that social spacing.
And don’t look at our drone robots,
unless you’d like erasing.
Kill all your birds with one stone.
Daddy would be proud.
COVID/PUTIN2020
Come on, shout it loud !
by Rick Young | Aug 13, 2020 | Poem
Stamp out the old post office.
Bring back the pony express.
Kidnap the corner mailbox.
He’ll stop this mail-in mess.
Stand in line and vote in person.
Otherwise it’s ripe for fraud.
Absentee ballots outside Florida
are an attempt to hurt god.
His puppet postmaster general,
big donor Louis DeJoy,
has other irons in the fire:
he’s not a mail type of boy.
He’s getting rid of mail sorters.
He’s shut down all overtime.
A massive campaign to scale down the vote
must be construed as high crime.
by Rick Young | Aug 12, 2020 | Poem
There was a round and orange man with worms inside his heart.
His racist landlord daddy taught him tricks right from the start,
then handed him the billions he had scammed throughout his life.
But orange boy had blown most of it by his second wife.
He bankrupted casinos, hotels, universities.
He had construction done and often ran off on the fees.
By the time he bought his third wife, he owed many lenders.
These were guys who’d break your back and not just dent your fenders.
Many promises were made, and deals under the table.
Dirty deeds would be his life, as long as he was able.
Then, like a deep-fried chicken bone that’s plucked of all its meat,
he’ll be thrown, alone, defeated, out into the street,
laughed at behind closed doors by old cronies and fat cats,
doomed by his own deeds now to be carried off by rats.
by Rick Young | Aug 11, 2020 | Poem
Mike Pence will have to build a fence
across debate stage floors.
Mother says beware black women,
most of them are whores.
Mike will have to wear a mask
and horse racing style blinders.
Underwear, don’t even ask.
Christian penis binders.
If the lotus starts her hindu voodoo
up on stage, Ironed Mike might poo poo;
if she flies into a rage, Mother will protect him;
she swings a mean right cross.
Joe and Ho will not kill God.
Not while Mother’s boss.
