by Rick Young | Oct 11, 2020 | Song
We’re goin’ to a Covid party!
It’s happenin’ on the White House lawn.
The odds are five to one of getting sick while having fun.
In a few weeks, some of us are probably gone.
But it’s worth it to hear our glorious leader,
through his spray of aerosol germs in the air,
tell us it will disappear, although it’s very clear
whatever happens to us, he won’t really care.
Maybe we’ll get a tee shirt or a fancy campaign hat.
We can beat this China virus if we’re brave.
And, if we do get sick, at least we’re lookin’ slick
in our 2020 garments in the grave.
It’s the ultimate death mental rave.
by Rick Young | Oct 9, 2020 | Poem
A busted billionaire out on the ledge
has drawn a crowd below; some holler, “Jump”.
For several hours now, he’s been on edge.
The tower he has climbed is branded “Trump.”
It’s one of many buildings that he owns.
All his claims of glory deal with money.
But now he has to pay off monster loans
from people who don’t think his act is funny.
The Russians clearly have him in their sights.
Records show the Chinese will soon follow.
The Saudis; lordy, he’s stretched very thin.
This pressure’s getting very hard to swallow.
His pleas for help from lawyers, thugs and God,
though blatant, have lately just gone unheeded.
Now he’s sick and whacked on steroid drugs,
a mark who can’t pay up, no longer needed.
But he’s a coward and will crawl on back
into the waiting arms of dreaded Feds.
He’ll rant and rave, insisting he is brave,
and blame his woes and troubles on the meds.
He’ll confess to crimes, name many names.
At this point he knows that he needs protection.
Abandoning his palace dipped in gold,
he’ll head off to a big house of correction.
by Rick Young | Oct 8, 2020 | Poem, Uncategorized
There wasn’t much suspense
in Harris versus Pence.
She had the upper hand.
He’s going to be shit canned.
And yet, he rambled on,
as if she’d up and gone.
She did a great slow burn
while waiting for her turn.
He flaunted debate rules,
treated the ‘girls’ like fools,
defended his great fascist boss,
played down the virus and the loss.
He piled them up, lie after lie.
But then, he wouldn’t hurt a fly.
by Rick Young | Oct 7, 2020 | Poem
I’m blocked by blatant blasphemies.
His dictator film fantasies.
He should have to pay disaster fees.
He tears the mask off,
with no breath to cough.
This movie must come to its end.
America is not his friend.
He’s got mutilation to spend.
And it’s never too late
to manipulate hate.
Anyone living inside
could be his diseased droplets bride.
A beautiful marriage,
and the wedding carriage
will drop you graveside when you’ve died.
by Rick Young | Oct 5, 2020 | Poem
He’s a one-man Covid parade.
Be afraid. Be very afraid.
He says he gets miracles sent down by god,
while crossing his fingers, a wink and a nod.
His people are cheering him out in the street,
which prompted this psychotic sick meet and greet.
He says he’ll be back in the White House in days,
to rule like a fool in a medical haze.
He’s taking a hodgepodge of powerful drugs.
Some of them may not have worked out their bugs.
Stand back and stand by, this might not work out well,
a strange denouement to these four years in hell.
