Red Tin Noodles

Put him in the hot seat.
Make him tell us why
he orchestrated riot
where several had to die.
His tweets were law to followers.
His voice was their command
to march down to the capitol,
take back their ‘stolen’ land.
Under the guise of free speech,
he musters his defense.
Ask him what he’d feel
if his supporters killed Mike Pence.
And though our heartless leader
is now removed from the game,
he will persist. You get the gist.
The man has got no shame.
Impeach him once.  Impeach him twice.
Just make him go away.
That pee hotel in Russia
might  be a place to stay.
And if the man is given chance
to ever run again,
say goodbye to freedom.
Move away and take your kin.

Mole rats should be the official mascot of the ‘republican’ party,
to be sold at the gallery concession store, some in tiny shirts
with stop the steal and such rat poop as befitting. Not shitting.
Inside the dome, walking their wheels, they’ll be the envy
of the eagles, bisons, hawks, turtles and vultures in the vaunted hall.
On the wall, their posters, big teeth agape, spitting dirt. Spewing lies.
Quailanon (not Quayleanon) has become their new leader.
He is everywhere and nowhere, underground and in your seat.
Their unseeing eyes only can sense his vital presence.
And now on to the mission of recruiting apes and asses.

My life hours are
packed haphazardly,
flung down a tube of
inside upside-down,
then reshuffled with
unexpected stops.
And, when I’m asked to cut,
I really want to cut.

Feed the hungry.
Kill the rich.
Ocean’s dying.
Life’s a bitch.
Nothing matters.
Plague abounds.
We don’t matter.
Make the rounds.
Police are angry.
Looters, too.
Sometimes they don’t
know who’s who.
Polar bears now
need life vests.
We have failed
so many tests.
To escape
our own trap,
leave the tent now.
Cut the flap.
Many things
will have to change.
Our streets are
a shooting range.
If we have to
pay for peace,
scrap the weapons.
Change the lease.
It’s time we learn
to treat our land
better than
a one-night-stand.
Stand together.
That we must.
We’re the gods
we must trust.

Dan collected face masks of dead goalies
and was known to steal some sneaks occasionally.
People had many fetishes in Beaverton.
His pal Andy had a vial of Blazer sweat
and a headband he claimed was Bill Walton’s.
A gang of the guys got together some nights
and traded wristbands, balls and batting gloves.
Someone would claim it was Tiger’s broken tee
or Kip Keino’s tossed cup in their hand,
but they had soiled the DNA. It was just a fantasy.
They were all disturbed by so-called Sosa pellets.
But the worst were plastic bags of spit-out chaw.
And someone said their dad had Mordecai Brown’s finger.

Our sinking ship has made it back to shore.
With Ahab gone, things just might be o.k.
Get all his seasick sailors off the floor.
And look forward to sail another day.
The white whale we’ve been chasing for four years
today submerged and migrated down south.
He’d breached the waters of our deepest fears
with lies that spilled like krill out of his mouth.
But now the hunt for power has been ended,
the waters that surround us calm and clear.
The boat and mast successfully defended,
we’d like to think a time of peace is near.

He’s still got his mitts on the nuclear codes until noon.
He’s up in the air like the devil may care, the buffoon.
If he sends the command to a nuclear sub,
D.C. just disappears in the bay, glub, glub, glub.
In this next two hours, he could have his say,
and possibly blow all the blue states away.
He said he’ll be back, perhaps in a new form.
His last campaign could well be called “U.S. Storm.”
There won’t be a sigh of relief until he
is disarmed and deposited in history.
As long as he still has his hands on the button,
we’re all meat to him, fried chicken and mutton.

Four hundred thousand Covid dead.
And DT’s packing up instead.
He doesn’t give a fuck for suckers out of luck,
as long as he winds up, somehow, ahead.
Tomorrow he will fly his family south
to be his party’s claws, if not its mouth;
where he can yell, “You’re fired!” to elderly retired
in the sunny land where marks are routh.
He still won’t admit ‘Sleepy’ took the wheel.
In his trapped mind, election was a steal.
He is the rightful ruler, and nothing could be crueler
than claiming his landslide was not for real.
He’s got four years to shape himself anew,
to get back at those reds who turned him blue.
With Georgia on his mind, his rage will make him blind.
He’ll fume and gloom in failed dictator stew.
He’ll gather at his side remaining goons,
the kinds of folk who’d steal the White House spoons.
May all his future days be festooned with sting rays.
And may he not be seen for many moons.

The end game dream of every grifter
is to lay on a Florida beach with his snifter.
To rescue a rich widow from the ever present waves
could be a drifter’s dream amongst the beneficial saves.
Of course there’s easy access to some great Cuban cigars.
It’s simple to make friends with suckers in the sandside bars.
Just check for designer shirts and jewelry made of gold.
It’s easy to get bold after a few drinks with the old.
Bent people with big savings are like fish in hotel pools.
They’ve spent their lives accumulating, never played for fools.
A con man with the expertise of a Las Vegas vet
can pull a scam then take a lam and not even get wet.
You’ve got two coasts, a grifter boasts, filled with retirees.
You can smell the money wafting in the warm sea breeze.
To grifters, rich old people are retirement insurance.
They have no strength of mind. It’s easy to break down endurance.
And, once you’ve done the east coast, from Daytona to Key West.
It’s Naples up to Pensacola, after a brief rest.
When a con accumulates enough Sunshine State glitter,
he’ll just fly west, proud of his quest, leaving the old folks bitter.

The Bills and the Browns.
The world is upside down.
Phil Spector’s wall of sound
lies broken on the ground.
MLK Day tomorrow
continues month of sorrow.
Challenged transfer of power
creeps toward its final hour.
After the bible oath is sworn,
we will be bent, but won’t be torn.
The don will disappear awhile
to prep for his impeachment trial.
But goons he’s unleashed on the streets
will still be on the trail of meats.
They are the gruesome underbelly
stoked by lies and red FOX telly.
But, without his mass persuasion,
they can’t rise to an occasion.
They’re just rebel flag gun toters,
whether dressed in boots or boaters.
Dust-ups may be their solution,
but that won’t start revolution.
Guilt confessions on e-mail
might send their dumb ass to jail.
Next is weed out all complicit.
In-house moles to be specific.
Defined disgrace and lifetime ban
perhaps can stop the fake news clan.
With climate change and plague to face,
it’s time to exit hatred’s place.
Let’s look ahead to workers’ needs.
And do away with wampum beads.

The stolen election
was just a projection
to ward off rejection
without introspection.
The failed insurrection
revealed our protection
is prone to infection
and must seek correction.
Post-riot detection
contends a confection
of auto suggestion
provoked their erection.
And further reflection
assumes that this section
will evade detection
by some new direction.
Our homeland’s complexion
may need an injection
of some new correction
enhancing connection.

We’ve found Illuminati, Scotty,
their symbols everywhere.
Triangles, black eyes, all things spotty.
Devils in their hair.
Lady Gaga ate some babies.
Madge is royalty.
J-Z’s bite can give you rabies,
needs your loyalty.
Secret hand signs
made by everyone in Hollywood.
Fascist bloodlines.
Out to destroy every thing that’s good.
Oh, Good Q, it’s up to you
to exorcize this satan.
And, when you get rid of him,
new problems will be waitin’.
Conspiracy feeds on itself,
a snake eating its tail.
There’s always new ones on the shelf,
for Good Q to assail.
So, fuck Tom Hanks. We owe him thanks
for his pedophile clues.
You won’t believe whats up the sleeve
of commie rotten jews.
They have you all in slavery,
but Q will set you free.
We praise him for his bravery
and get up off our knees.
No Rothschild line, no poison wine
will keep us from our hour.
And all things will be good and fine
when Good Q comes to power.

Another shot at insurrection,
under, this time, real direction.
The last was nothing but rehearsal.
This time the aim is reversal.
A lot more guns and ammunition
will bring a death toll to fruition.
Will there be armies crossing cannons?
Will there be robot droid Steve Bannons?
Who’ll win the Best Costumed Right Winger?
Can Rudy get in one last zinger?
We already know the score.
Oh for one in civil war.
This one will be more far-reaching,
maybe even nation-breaching.
Once the line is in the sand,
Trump’s destroyed the country’s brand.
All that’s left is fall from grace.
And auto trophy: 2nd PLACE.

Laying siege the Capitol was such a ratings boon,
new episodes will start as early as next Monday noon.
So many patriotic folks thought the first show such fun,
next time, to pump the drama, everyone will have a gun.
And, better yet, to whet the appetite and set a mood,
the rioters will be costumed, a la that viking dude.
And more spray paint, as graphics are essential to good crime.
A metal music soundtrack just might be pumped in next time.
Perhaps a riot cheering squad could liven up the mix,
and programs, listing insurrection stats and favorite tricks.
A weekly riot guest star could add flavor to the scene.
The ratings would just soar to watch Kenosha’s killer teen.
And, one more thing, the police should act much more like Keystone Kops.
With shoe soles lathered up with grease, there’d be more belly flops.
If produced right, these battle shows will be the new sensation.
Quite soon, they’ll be on every night. Perhaps on every station.

Trump is in his bunker, not the one in Mar-a-Lago.

They’re finding missing ballots everywhere.
Reports say one was pulled out of his hair.
Ballot bags in rivers and burned in hollow trees.
Thousands more in nursing homes, many marked by sneeze.
Ballots filling farm silos and soaked in swimming pools.
Did they think he’d overlook this treason? Are they fools?
Ballots stuffed between each slat in his defensive fence.
Rumor has it some were found in drawers of Mrs. Pence.
Ballots in a dumpster behind favored KFC.
Only found because he went outside to take a pee.
Of course each ballot saved amazingly contained his name.
No doubt, if they’re authentic, they will surely change the game.
All he needs to do is have these found votes validated.
But, seems he’s hidden them so well, they cannot be located.

He’s wired the White House to explode.
Just push a button once he’s on the road.
He’s broken every law, in hock up to his jaw.
He might as well go all-in crazy mode.
There’ve been some other madmen in his place.
But others had, at least, a saving grace.
Nixon knew to quit. Ronnie lost his shit.
They’ll have to bring this mother down with mace.
His name will be synonymous
with all things dark and ominous.
His overwhelming downfall will be greed.
The legend of his crimes
will bleed to nursery rhymes.
He’ll be known as America’s bad seed.

This new year’s eve, there’s no reprieve
from ghosts of old years past.
The orange pall which cloaked us all
now seems that it will last.
It needs another twenty days
to dissipate its frisson,
and then another several months
to put that pall in prison.
There’ll be no horns or party hats
until inauguration.
But, once you hear that bible slam,
begin the celebration.
So what if our new year starts off
with twenty days in hock.
We need time to recuperate
from four years spent in shock.
So, give the first two weeks
of twenty-one to forty-five.
And celebrate the fact
that we survived his reign alive.
Should he return in twenty-four,
he’ll be laughed off the stage.
His tired act begs no encore.
It’s simply old-age rage.
Besides, if he has any thoughts
of returning a savior,
he’ll have to somehow work in
four years off for good behavior.