Red Tin Noodles

Like a waveless ocean awaiting tsunami.
The sand tenses. Trees try to shuffle away.
Sea horses gallop. Crabs get friendly.
Big fish, little fish, work in harmony
to avoid induction, gills pumping.
The sky still looks the same, but closer.
From afar and still silent, forces gather.
The beach is too big to escape.
Embrace the moment at hand. Build a castle.

Today we learned of RINO’s and dead dogs at the polls.
Apparently all zombies weren’t removed from voter rolls.
A dog did vote beside me. He’d a coat of rusty red.
I saw him vote straight Dem but didn’t know that he was dead.
And what about that chicken who was behind me in line?
And those two cats in hoodies that I’m sure were quite feline.
And talk about the rotten eggs put inside voting baskets.
I got quite suspicious when they rolled in all the caskets.
Also saw one voter who looked just like a cyborg.
A few cold souls rolled in obviously straight out of the morgue.
We’ve got to stop this voting bloc of pets and the undead.
They had their choice to vote for Gore before.
The rest’s unsaid.

It’s been hinted that Joe Biden will tear down the southern wall,
and have it moved to 666 Fifth Ave.
One assumes the Kushner/Trump alliance won’t like that at all.
The wall’s the only souvenir they have.
But then it could be used to keep debt collectors away.
And pasted up with signs for twenty-four.
“I’ll put this back when I am re-elected,” it might say.
Meanwhile, he won’t be answering the door.
And if antifa members try to desecrate his wall,
and spray it with slogans like “Black Lives Matter,”
then Trump might post himself outside with Teddy’s great big stick,
and scream, “You be the ball. I’ll be the batter.”
Ivanka just might use the wall to brand her haute couture,
a clothing line for rapists and drug dealers.
And Jared might sell framed chunks, trying to work down his debt.
He’s already sent the Saudis several feelers.
DJ and Eric can use parts to set up their new scam,
a petting zoo for just endangered species.
“We won’t have to kill them if this works,’ said junior Don.
“We might even make tacos from their feces.”
So, say goodbye to your great fence, good people of the south.
Some day it may return if things go wrong.
If not, perhaps it will be purchased by the band Pink Floyd,
and resurrected just to play their song.

(“If you don’t eat yer meat, you can’t have any pudding.”)

There’ll be dogs back in the White House pretty soon.
They’ll replace the current resident baboon.
The return of shed pet hair will be easier to bear
than the current crypto locks of golden doom.
There’ll be barking, but within the canine way.
There’ll be no one left inside the House to spay.
And, in the coming setting, there will be lots of petting.
No longer will the place smell like hair spray.

Vote counters are getting death threats.
Trump people don’t like mathematics.
Besides, their king says he would bet
they’re rapists and drug addicts.
“A boy who dotes on numbers,
like a girl who plays with guns,
just cannot be familiar with
the way this country runs.”
And so his people wait outside,
and most inside are nervous.
“I’ve not seen so many guns
since I was in the service.”
The crownless king plays golf and snarls,
makes claims he is the winner.
He wants to see a recount
before he sits down to dinner.
He’ll pout and whine on every day
that’s left in this dread year.
He’ll replay his balcony scene
in hopes that folks will cheer.
He’ll call on Ted Cruz, Lindsey Graham,
all his best butt lickers.
We will know it’s near the end
when Guilliani flickers.
On January twenty first,
come hell or muddy water.
We’ll see them walk away, bags packed,
two whacked sons and a daughter.
And lastly, sobbing, head down,
shuffling and shoulders slumped,
will exit exiled king, with queen,
to shouts’ “You’ve just been TRUMPED !”

And here comes Pennsylvania rounding the far turn,
spurred on by her buoyant rider, Li’l Ben FX, passing now,
on the outside, Arizona, ridden by John McCain’s ghost,
and Georgia, with the devil in the saddle, and Nevada,
which many voters thought had a lock on second place.
Lastly, falling back on the rail is North Carolina, whose rider,
Thom Tillis, looks like he might better appreciate the ACA
when this horse race is over. His steed looks extremely spent.

Arizona, I hope Diamondbacks next year will win it all.
Nevada, may your gambling state long reign.
As I watched in horror states turn red and drop the ball,
I wondered at four more years spent in pain.
Florida looked good at first, then came Miami Dade.
Texas held some mild surprises, then blue got waylaid.
Georgia, thanks to Stacey Abrams, held out early hope.
So did Carolina, for a while, then, later, nope.
Minnie, Michi, Wiscy, Illi built their midwest wall.
Only problem there: it looked like Penny just might fall.
Then, up stepped Arizona, and it opened a new lane.
It turned a red state blue in memory of John McCain.
And then there came Nevada, with its memories of shooting.
A state that suffered his four years stepped up to do the booting.
And so, a blue line runs from Texas border to Seattle,
leaving Trump’s mouthpieces crying foul about the battle.
“We will win Pennsylvania,” screams Eric, the dumber son.
That’s great, blockhead; it means your daddy only lost by one.
It’s still not quite official. We await the checkered flag.
But that’s soon due. The winning blue votes linger in the bag.

I’ve got a lot in common with my cat.
It’s more than we’re both getting old and fat.
Now he sleeps with my wife as I go about my life,
caught in a nowhere betwixt this and that.
While oftentimes we slouch, entangled on the couch,
there are times we don’t engage for hours.
He doesn’t like the rain, or my arthritis pain.
Neither one of us think much of baths or showers.
I sweep his hair off the floor
once a month and not much more.
All the clothing in the house looks like angora.
With the white hair on our faces,
we go many the same places.
He’s my fave of all fauna and flora.

I’ve been standing in this line at least four hours now.
Some people right behind me seem about to have a cow.
Trump pickups, honking, drive by with long rifles and their guns.
I wonder how a father feels who has some Proud Boy sons.
A sea of red and ugly topped with standard MAGA hats.
A couple tough gals just walked by, carrying baseball bats.
I wonder if it’s worth this ordeal for just my one vote,
then snap back to my senses and retrieve this mental note:
four years losing sleep at night because of his delusions;
wondering how the world will react to his wrong conclusions;
watching immigrants get caged and children separated;
watching peaceful protesters become a thing he hated;
seeing corporations bolstered by his cut in tax;
hearing lies get redefined as ‘alternative facts’;
gasping as he gives his children governmental clearance;
grasping at reality spurred by his strange appearance;
and his ties with Russia, which we know nothing about.
My innermost conviction tells me that my vote has clout.
I’ll throw it back into their faces! I will be my best.
And when I finally get inside, my vote’s for Kanye West.

This is it. We’re up for grabs.
Edging sideways. Soft shell crabs.
Plashing to the polls in waves.
Some from castles, some from caves.
Sand is shifting underneath.
What shall we the world bequeath?
Four more years of mean rip tides?
All on this election rides.
In the coming fifty hours,
earth could turn to ice or flowers.
Human kindness out of fashion?
Can we resurrect compassion?
Watch the states turn blue and red.
Every minute brings more dread.
Beneath all, the worst of fears.
Russia, jamming up the gears.

Trump will dress as Mussolini.
It’s his favorite look.
He could throw the world a loop
by dressing as a book.
The only book he owns, however,
is “Art Of The Deal.”
And that one wasn’t really ‘great.’
He skimmed the book piecemeal.
He pondered dressing as Sean Connery
looked in Robin Hood,
but realized the Sherwood tights
on him won’t not look good.
And so it is Benito
that’s his costume for the night.
Lumped out there on the balcony,
he knows he’ll look just right.
He’ll fill his bag with candy
from his working staff and aides.
Then to the oval office,
where he’ll check for razor blades.

Barrett and Barr were riding in a car,
chatting on the things that really matter.
As they drove, one didn’t have to travel very far
to realize this wasn’t idle chatter.
“First we’ll kill their health care,” Barr remarked,
joy unconcealed, “and then we’ll up the sick count
with our spreaders. ”
Destination reached, they quickly pulled aside and parked.
“Good thing,” he said, “Trump likes his doubleheaders.”
“Then take away abortion,” she sang out with unchecked glee,
“and get these fetus killers back in line.
Pretty soon everyone can have seven kids like me.
But, oh, how will we feed them, they will whine.”
“That’s great,” Barr chuckled heartily, “and what about gay rights?”
“We’ll end their same-sex marriage,” she rejoined.
“I haven’t had this much fun since those west coast protests nights,”
Barr chortled, “All their rights will be purloined.”
They pulled away at last and spoke of curtailing free speech,
and making masks illegal due to crime.
When talking of the clampdown, there was nothing out of reach.
“The oligarchy’s here. This is the time.”

Last days of les fleurs du mal.
Waiting now on the cabal
to reject all kinds of voting,
iced with their condensed fraud coating.
They’ll inject a dose of panic,
and the king, at his most manic,
will dip into his trick trough,
screaming the election’s off.
There is no need for re-do.
Four more years of you-know-who.
Forget people’s voting rights.
His are set on higher heights.
With the help of comrade Barr,
he’ll become a U.S. Tsar.
Combining his nukes with Putin.
how long until they start shootin’?
Sights set on world domination,
every rule and need forsaken,
World War three might last three days,
spawn a radiation haze.
In their deep survival bunker,
Putin and the king will hunker.
Having stroked our deepest fears,
They may have to hide for years.

Our new flag celebrates the thin blue line.
The old red, white and blue has seen its time.
Enough of unity and peace.
It’s time we celebrate the police,
and get tough on the leftists and their crime.
And now it’s best that we replace the eagle.
It represented truth and all that’s legal.
But that’s not our new culture.
Much better is the vulture.
Makes for faster cleanup, though not regal.
And, lastly, our old anthem has to go.
For many years, it put on a good show.
But it’s not of its day.
Unlike “YMCA.”
Which, at least, has words which you might know.

Trump’s great plans for harmony
around the middle east
have just been put to test by
the Ethiopian beast.
Their huge hydropower dam,
upstream on the Blue Nile,
will block the flow to two countries
downstream in a short while.
Trump, of course, looked deep
into his magic tea leaves cup,
and said, no joke, that Egypt
will just have to blow it up.
That damned dam is ruining
his peace plans with Sudan.
And to save negotiations,
he’ll do all he can.
Maybe he’ll send Seals
to help out with the detonation.
That’s if any survived
“fake” Bin Lad assassination.
Israel-Sudan engagement’s
top priority.
And blowing up the dam would please
his new close friend, Bibi.
So, Egypt, use your great explosives.
Liberate the river.
Damn the Ethiopians.
Make their timbers shiver.