Goodbye Mikhail Gorbachev,
you sure tore down that wall.
And now your people hate you
for heeding Reagan’s call.
Ronnie pulled the wool, it seems,
o’er unsuspecting eyes.
Began with arms for hostages,
and just continued lies.
And now it’s come to Putin,
our own T-monster’s ‘friend,’
attacking Ukraine’s nuke plant
which could court a grisly end.
Perhaps he’ll get his union back,
reverse history books,
while NATO observes in their fear
and Ukraine slowly cooks.
I wear a headband of police tape.
My brain is a crime scene.
Sometimes I say what I don’t think
or think what I don’t mean.
My memory’s a jukebox
full of skipping forty-fives.
Too many tunes, too many tracks,
tied to so many lives.
Awake all night, plagued by my plight,
surrendering by dawn,
I rise at noon, aware that soon
the day is almost gone.
I know that aging’s not a crime,
but it could be much cleaner.
It’s surely not a felony,
perhaps just misdemeanor.
Electronics have no feeling.
Oftentimes they leave you reeling.
One day, just as you had feared,
your password has disappeared.
All your work’s gone into hiding,
with so much upon it riding.
Reestablishing contact
isn’t just a simple act.
Jump through hoops to hit dead end.
Electronics aren’t your friend.
You can’t find some help online.
Your machine can’t hear you whine.
Google tells you, try again.
Welcome to the looney bin.
Fall into a thousand traps,
increase harder keyboard taps,
’til you’re pounding on ‘escape,’
your face purple as a grape.
If electronics could laugh,
you’d break your keyboard in half.
Silently, you hit reboot.
Then you go off on a toot.
Electronics? Just a vapor.
Not your friend like pen and paper.
His castle in Palm Beach,
called ‘Mar-a-Lago,’ (Sea to Lake),
was home to secret documents
he had no right to take.
Some with top priority,
like info about nukes,
were hidden in a basement
club accessible to kooks.
When asked to give them back,
he didn’t even offer half.
To him, the notion ‘classified’
was nothing but a laugh.
Confronted with an FBI raid
taking back the haul,
he gave the following excuse
(the man has lots of gall):
“Every President steals things
when forced to leave their post.
So what if I stole a few things.
Obama took the most.”
The man has no conception
of the notion of the law.
One hopes this proof of treason
just might be his final flaw.
A church full of rats in elegant hats
were ready to pray to their lord.
The high priest of vermin always gave his sermon
from inside a hollowed-out gourd.
They sang of great scraps and afternoon naps
and filled every one of the pews.
The high priest did squeak, with food in his cheek,
and said, “Vermin, I have some good news.”
It seems the pizza rat, who’d stirred up human chat,
was going to be the guest at next week’s meeting.
He’d bring a map of spill zones and discarded food locales.
The congregation dreamed of better eating.
“He’ll show you a cafe down one dark alleyway
which has amazing food but not much seating.”
The service ended with tails intertwined.
Aside from cats, food preys on a rat’s mind.