Exit the Sandman
Our king has built
a castle of mistakes.
On shifting sands.
And still the waves don’t reach.
Seaweed lashes walls,
snails charge
and seagulls peck the gates.
But the tide will decide.
And the moon adjusts its volume.
Red Tape
He didn’t want a panic.
He hates to see us manic.
Just die and go in peace.
Some day this thing will cease
and go away like magic.
Oh, sure, it was quite tragic.
As long as stocks do not decline,
everything will be just fine.
New rising employment figures,
boosted by need for grave diggers,
show that we will come back stronger,
even if this goes on longer.
Watch them all fight for vaccines.
Gee, I love my pharma queens.
It wasn’t so much a reach
when I told folks to drink bleach.
Saves the family getting sicker.
Culls the herd a whole lot quicker.
Next disease, I need some stats,
showing it kills Democrats.
Sure, I’ll get a lot of flack,
targeting the brown and black.
Hark back to the great wild west,
where the white man could “be best.”
No one dared threaten their guns.
If they did, they were dead ones.
U.S. can be great once more.
Just eliminate the poor.
Autocrats and working serfs.
Blue states gone, just like the Smurfs.
Ted Cruz named to Supreme Court
will make sure moms can’t abort.
Supreme General William Barr,
just awarded his tenth star,
will maintain an enforced peace.
All protest will henceforth cease.
Without all the thugs and haters,
life will be good for dictators.
People crying to be free?
They are all just dead to me.
Gone Bouzouki
An Irish bouzouki, when played by a Wookie
can be mournful, hearty or hairy.
But in a quartet with the bad Boba Fett
on his lute the results were just scary.
Yoda had to save face up on his washtub bass.
Crazy Lando went Toth-wild on skins.
But when the music ended, the Empire unfriended.
And so, a new Star Wars begins.
All the President’s Mien
Trump just confessed everything on tape.
Bill Barr now wants us to fund Trump’s rape.
Mike Pence is going to a QAnon rally.
B&B Inferno opened, California Valley.
The land’s afire, like a worn out tire,
and Frisco’s skies are red.
Trump knew the danger, fucking liar,
now they’re HIS COVIDead.
There is not a bandage big enough to cover this.
Hold this in your mind: his off-to-prison goodbye kiss.
Place Markers
On Labor Day we celebrate how our great country works.
The rich pay us to kill ourselves and then treat us like jerks.
We celebrate the forty hour week, plus overtime.
They work us hard and bleed us dry. Their money is a crime.
They live in mansions inside gates and take foreign vacations.
We slave until retirement, then expect reparations.
Our medicare and social trough keep us out of the street.
We have enough to clothe ourselves and food that we can eat.
Our biggest entertainment is a cheap beer at the bar,
while they are eating pheasant, good champagne and caviar.
Sometimes on the weekend we’ll drive to the nearest beach.
To a well-off owner, there is no place out of reach.
Cannes and St. Tropez are just a couple destinations.
Workers have a change jar to save money for gas stations.
First class flights and Broadway nights are out of reach for most.
For the elite, it’s meet and greet, anywhere, coast to coast.
And, when we die, we hope to have resources for a stone,
maybe a cross, a sign the boss above threw us a bone.