Red Tin Noodles

Well, at least we won the big one.
Nothing Trump can do to spoil it.
But, unless we get those Georgia seats,
we’ll still be in the toilet.
Mitch will freeze the senate
with his special turtle drool.
With the old dictator gone,
he’s the essential tool.
It’s right there in his job description,
next to kissing ass.
He will not hear or help a thing.
He’s like the talking bass.
And, like the turtle, he’ll plod on
without the orange hare.
To make the damned Dems impotent
is his eternal care.
With Grand Rand Paul and Not Tom Cruz,
he’ll snuff out opposition.
Right judges and rich tax breaks,
even after the transition,
will still be goals and FOX News trolls
will resume with their lies.
We won, but if we lose those seats,
it’s all moot exercise.

Come get your pardon,
available down at the Rose Garden,
redecorated, because the other way
my wife hated.
Your pardon costs less
than did changing this mess.
It’s not just us.
We’ve got expenses.
And then again there’s also the two Pences.
Here I am, fighting off libels.
All they do’s collect rare bibles.
Don’t forget Ivanka’s needs,
keeping Jared wrapped in tweeds.
DJTJ is another.
Needs his blow, unlike his brother.
Eric’s simple, and it shows.
Feed him, clean him, change his clothes.
Barron’s still a mystery.
Is he related to me?
Pardons ! Pardons ! Ink’s still wet.
If you haven’t got one yet,
step right up, you’re wasting time.
I’ll erase your every crime.
Buy one that’s before the fact.
Then, when you’re caught in the act,
you can wave it in their face.
Pardon ! Pardon ! Saving grace.
Come on down. See ‘Crazy Don.’
Orange pardon light is on.
You can get out of jail, free.
You just need to favor me.

The Don must cross the Rubicon,
as mandated by QAnon.
The act would be a right wing pleaser,
if he went all Julius Caesar.
General Flynn is all in favor.
Martial law’s his favorite flavor.
Thirty days he’s still in power,
countdown ticking by the hour.
He could be the best dictator
on this side of the equator.
Things might become a bit hairy
concerning the military.
In a clampdown, things get tough.
He may not have ‘friends’ enough.
If things go beyond the pale,
enablers might land in jail.
Pardons might not go too well
if Trump, too, is in a cell.
One great fantasy awaits:
Orange, making license plates.

When General Flynn talks martial law,
Trump thinks about Matt Dillon.
In every Gunsmoke that he saw,
there always was some killin’.
His chance to shoot folks on the street
might be around the corner.
He could blast everyone he’d meet,
especially a foreigner.
A presidential killing spree
would not be that uncommon.
His Covid total’s history.
Not too bad for a Brahmin.
He could leave half the country dead,
reprieving his supporters.
It wouldn’t bother his big head.
He follows his own orders.
With his Poor Boys army,
he’d wreak havoc on the left.
They’re so smart and smarmy
that he wouldn’t be bereft.
Once the smoke has settled down,
he’ll make up his new rules.
His brand new title, ‘Killer Clown,”
should appease all the fools.
One day, he’ll change the country’s name.
It shall become Trump Land.
When history becomes a game,
he wants to have the brand.

T’was a long and twisted road,
knowing not what it forebode.
Colbert wept election eve.
Outcome we could not conceive.
Hillary was the wrong choice,
shady past and grating voice.
Still, who thought the Don could win,
light of hair and weak of chin.
When he rode that escalator,
people laughed, said, “See you later.”
Who knew then that this great land
was half desperado band.
Quickly, he put all his cronies
into jobs where they were phonies.
First step, tax cuts for the rich.
Fired anyone who’d snitch.
Nixed good laws and loved dictators.
Border moat with alligators?
Spent three years building a wall
that does us no good at all.
Beat impeachment, thanks to Mitch.
People said he’s Moscow’s bitch.
Embraced those who scream “White Power,”
played golf, moved south from Trump Tower.
Told lies at a record clip.
No truth fell from his heir lip.
Then, when true crisis arose,
he played golf and thumbed his nose.
Half a million here might die
because of his viral lie.
When he lost the big election,
thought Supremes would be protection.
With no concept of the truth,
he now rivals John Wilkes Booth.
Tried to kill democracy,
sold out, sea to shining sea.
Now he claims he will not leave,
’cause the vote he won’t believe.
Streams of fake and fraud all day.
Devil Trump, just go away.
Residents of Mar-a-Lago
want him to live in Chicago.
Maybe he’ll just ride the rail.
On the lam, he could beat jail.
Present hope is we’ll survive
the great wreck of forty-five.
Follow Joe, who knows the score.
Next big test in twenty-four.

Billy, Barr the door.
He’ll be A.G no more.
Word is that on Christmas eve,
this sly sycophant will leave.
It is said he lost Don’s favor
when the big hoax didn’t savor.
The fraud that Bill couldn’t find
made poor Donnie lose his mind.
As it was all just pretend,
Billy couldn’t hold his end.
Two hard years of kissing ass,
now he’s expelled from the class.
There’ll now be no nth degree
in advanced high trickery.
Figured he’d best hit the trail
before there came talk of jail.
His next job might be construction,
based on his skills at obstruction.
He’d excel, it’s no surprise,
as CEO of telling lies.
Some say he’ll keep out of trouble
hanging out with Barney Rubble.
But a man with his mean skill
hankers, oft, for one more kill.

Charlie Pride has died
of Covid complications,
first black superstar to play
on country music stations.
Sara Palin took to Georgia,
urging “crush the vote,”
wearing buckskin, in, we hope,
her final fool’s footnote.
L’il Wayne pled guilty
to a federal firearms charge.
Having a gold sidearm
is just part of livin’ large.
Baby Yoda, hottest toy
of this holiday season.
Let him talk Elf off the Shelf,
restore some Jedi reason.
Lastly, BTS named
entertainer of the year.
But do not fret, their Time will pass.
There is nothing to fear.

A spree of executions in his last months as the king.
As far as hurting people goes, he hasn’t missed a thing.
Even Kim K couldn’t talk him into clemency.
He’s out the door, will try no more for simple decency.
He’s got way too much on his mind to worry about death.
To holding to his legacy, he’ll give his every breath.
He doesn’t want to be a laughing stock amongst dictators.
He’s searching for some device which will vaporize his haters.
If he could just succeed in wrecking our democracy,
he’d become the greatest autocrat in history.
Putin, Kim and Erdogan would bow down to his power.
All the world would be unfurled around his golden tower.
And, when he takes his fall, which will occur before too long,
his crash will be a smash, the greatest comedown since King Kong.

He’s grifting on his way out the door.
What’s left behind will be a grim eyesore.
He’s pulling up the carpets from the floor.
They’ve let him loose and there will be much more.
He’ll turn the oval office to a fish aquarium,
rent the Lincoln bedroom out as sanitarium.
He’ll sell the oldest silverware, even hock the drapes.
When he gets through, the place will look like Planet of the Apes.
The one thing he’ll pull off, to have his minions deem him cleric,
is switching out expensive art for finger paints by Eric.

Come on down to Buy A Pardon.
It’s paradise without the garden.
It’s Eden with a lot more snakes.
It’s where big bucks buy bigger breaks.
No matter what your lowdown ways,
we’ll have you out in thirty days.
No matter if you’re friend to me.
You don’t get out of jail for free.
We call the payments campaign contributions.
You have a problem and we have solutions.
If you kill a protester down on Fifth Avenue.
Worry not, you big hot shot, we’ve got an out for you.
Assassinate a nuclear scientist in Iran?
No problem, buy a pardon, hide your life out in Japan.
Our closeout and holiday sales are sure to be a hit.
Amazing how a lot of green can get you out of shit.
Remember, buy your pardon before we get out the door.
Otherwise you’ll have to wait ’til twenty-twenty-four.

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.

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.”

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.

Black Friday, in the days gone by,
used to be a riot.
Now, it’s all just shop at home,
and everything is quiet.
But, in the times before,
they’d mass outside the door,
as if hungry or poor,
then charge into the store.
There’d even be fist fights
about their buyer’s rights,
and other nasty sights.
You’d see scratches and bites.
But nowadays, with germs about,
Black Friday’s had its heart cut out.
No lines for blocks outside the mall.
No shoppers trampled when they fall.
No dress department tugs of war.
No combatants down on the floor.
It’s all so simple: buy on line.
Sit at home with cheese and wine.
Contact shopping, rest in peace.
When will wonders ever cease?

I saw Satan at my polling place.
He had horns and all,
but he had Jared’s face.
Wearing a nice suit,
he looked quite tall and pale.
But, looking down beneath his cuffs,
I know I saw some tail.
And when I went to vote,
he quickly stepped right up to me,
said, “How ’bout a vacation
in the lovely heat for free?”
All I had to do was vote
against all of the Dems,
and I could see the fire flowers’
ever-burning stems,
swim the sizzling lake
and learn to walk on burning coals.
But I don’t think the devil
should be allowed at the polls.
So I said, “No thanks, Satan,”
and I stepped behind the curtain.
He was screaming he would
make my soul explode for certain.
I exited, expecting to see
many things I feared.
To my relief, there was no grief.
Jared had disappeared.

Six scythes sigh citing sight’s slight size.
Contemporaneously, the clown chief juggles
balls in the oversize pockets of golf pantaloons.
His jesters, the caddies, the sick secret service,
all watch in astonishment balls fly all over.
Every drive is a missile. Every iron is a bomb.
The holes in this course seem bigger.
They were made by random mortar fire.
Hole nine takes thirteen putts. No fairways.
Nineteenth is sprite and cheese fries. Hot sauce.
He signs scorecards for the crowd. A perfect 18.
Then into the bulletproof cart and onto the nearest Y.

The talking heads illuminate the dead.
But nothing that they say has any cred.
The numbers are not taken as a fact.
The word of this decade might be ‘redact.’
With snow about to glisten,
only half the people listen.
The unmasked versus masked
are like two teams,
who battle late at night
inside our dreams.
In very worst nightmares,
it’s as if not one soul cares.
The protesters with guns
descend en masse like Huns.
‘Don’t take our rights away,’
they’ll scream with plague in play.
They act the pioneer.
A mask might make them queer.
They must go to the gym.
The virus is a whim.
They’ll party on though thousands
are still dying.
Inside closed houses,
relatives are crying.
The new talk on developing vaccines
until next year is just a hill of beans.
And now, alas, another complication.
Our leader’s gone on permanent vacation.
And if he tries a coup, there’s nothing we can do.
Stay tuned to this apocalyptic station.