by Rick Young | Nov 28, 2020 | Poem
Will Trump sell our secrets
to the Russians to pay debts?
When he leaves his office,
that’s the utmost of our threats.
He’s talked of secret weapons.
Those details are worth some dough.
What goes on inside his brain
is something we can’t know.
We do know he owes billions
and the debts are coming due.
So, what would be the harm
of selling off a code or two?
The only things he’s good at
are the grift, steal, cheat and scam.
The worry is he’ll cash us in
and take it on the lam.
by Rick Young | Nov 27, 2020 | Song
DjTj 2024.
Nuttin like you ever even seen before.
‘Member screamin’ lady yellin’
“best is yet to come”?
She be sacrificed in tv show
called DjCHUM.
Shark bite. Dark night.
Star bright. Ignite.
We more dan brite.
We may take flyte.
You never, never, never know
where costly coke will make you go.
I bin in places where
you needed upsleeve aces,
and on high spots
where many people flew.
I’ve seen a torture dungeon
and the place Square Bob was spongin’.
So I’m ready for my role in CoupCoup II.
by Rick Young | Nov 26, 2020 | Poem
The gourd tradition on Thanksgiving
was passed down from dead to living.
Gourds were always on the table,
in the hut, the barn, the stable.
The fourth magi brought a gourd,
never made it to the lord.
Gourds have a great history.
Why is still a mystery.
Maybe when the gourds are gone
comes a time when swords are drawn.
But when there are gourds aplenty,
we should think of twenty-twenty.
Seen our share of gourds with bumps,
elongated humpty humps,
gourds with stripes and pumpkins blue,
twisted gourds from Bonzai Two.
Gourds in every market stand,
on the beaches, in the sand.
Gourds with altered DNA.
Some can even speak, they say.
“No more gourds,” we scream to God.
“They’re morphing into something odd.”
Arisen in the street, new lords,
dogma spouting angry gourds.
“You’ll not squash us any more!
We’re not the gourds we were before.”
by Rick Young | Nov 25, 2020 | Poem
Trump’s pardon of Flynn today
followed the pardon of a turkey.
They say the next one up in line’s
the Notorious Beef Jerky.
Then liberate some KFC,
and Popeye’s chicken, Ooh-ooh-wee.
Then let’s get donuts out of jail
and pay Ronald MacDonald’s bail.
We’ll spring the Hardee’s/Arby’s gang,
and end the pardons with a bang.
And, so, make room in that clown car
for legendary Billy Barr.
Not the Kid, but just as vicious,
his crime trail no less pernicious.
In the Orange Gang’s crime ring,
he would rank with Burger King.
Word is Trump might even pardon
salad bars at Olive Garden.
Here is something seldom said:
this swamp is very well fed.
by Rick Young | Nov 25, 2020 | Poem, Posthumous Additions
“When the gourds are gone…”
is when the swords are drawn.
But when there’s gourds aplenty,
we think of twenty-twenty.
We’ve had our share of gourds with bumps,
elongated humpty humps,
gourds with stripes and pumpkins blue,
twisted gourds from Bonzai Two.
“No more gourds,” we scream to God.
“They’re morphing into something odd.”
Arisen in the street, new Lords,
dogma spouting Christian gourds.
“You’ll not squash us any more!
We’re not the gourds we were before.”
