Red Tin Noodles

On Labor Day we celebrate how our great country works.
The rich pay us to kill ourselves and then treat us like jerks.
We celebrate the forty hour week, plus overtime.
They work us hard and bleed us dry. Their money is a crime.
They live in mansions inside gates and take foreign vacations.
We slave until retirement, then expect reparations.
Our medicare and social trough keep us out of the street.
We have enough to clothe ourselves and food that we can eat.
Our biggest entertainment is a cheap beer at the bar,
while they are eating pheasant, good champagne and caviar.
Sometimes on the weekend we’ll drive to the nearest beach.
To a well-off owner, there is no place out of reach.
Cannes and St. Tropez are just a couple destinations.
Workers have a change jar to save money for gas stations.
First class flights and Broadway nights are out of reach for most.
For the elite, it’s meet and greet, anywhere, coast to coast.
And, when we die, we hope to have resources for a stone,
maybe a cross, a sign the boss above threw us a bone.

Thugs on a plane can be a drain
on a protestor’s resources.
So, we’re going green in a new riot scene,
it’s Protestors on Horses.
Imagine those imported goons
when you rear up and charge.
They’ll run and hide in the saloons,
and you’ll be livin’ large.
Yes, Protestors on Horses,
the new wave in social clashing.
When the right outsources,
we will send our nags out gnashing.
Our Protestors on Horses
will drive the Prouds away.
And other outside forces
they will scare with their neigh neigh.
With all this crime it’s now the time
to change the country’s courses.
In spirit of the wild, wild west,
it’s Protestors on Horses.

Last night I lost my faith in gravity.
And, so, the moon fell from the stricken sky.
It knocked me down and I rolled like a cork
into the vast and eternal darkness.
And, now, today!

Laura knocked ’em dead in Louisiana,
while Trump brought ’em to life in his D.C.
Packed ’em in the garden, prisoners without pardon,
rallying politically where he’s not supposed to be.
Seated close together without face masks,
cheering at his handling of the plague,
his apostles will do what their god asks,
even when consequences are vague.
Time will tell if this planned super-spreader
shall take a toll on some two-thousand there.
And if he’s thrown some lives into the shredder,
it’s quite obvious he doesn’t care.
Four long nights of scare tactics are over.
One would need a scorebook for his lies.
Every time he sniffs, here come a few more stiffs.
At least Don Junior had tears in his eyes.
And, speaking of his son’s cocaine addiction,
and his FOX girlfriend’s vocal volume surge,
in this damned family is there no restriction?
Can anyone just act on any urge?
It’s good that both Tiffany and Eric
haven’t got the brains to be a danger.
Ivanka is turning to Bo Derek.
Barron keeps on starin’, ever stranger.
Melania showed reading skills improved.
Was her green-screen dress an inside joke?
She said all the right things, as behooved.
Sparkling, maybe she, too, ‘s on coke.
So, we go back to our world of terror,
isolated, indoors and afraid.
Watching this convention was an error.
Chalk it up to time badly mislaid.

We’re losing Kellyanne
because her teens are acting out.
Their father hates their mother’s boss
is what it’s all about.
With parents both sides of the fence,
home life had gotten strange.
Mommy works for evil.
Dad can’t make her change.
Now they’re taking time off,
both sides, for the kids,
maybe save the household whole
from going off the skids.
Some will miss her lying face
and straw-like yellow hair.
Some will miss his commentary.
Nothing did he spare.
She has done her damage,
joined the pantheon of hate.
He’s helped make some anti ads
which, frankly, have been great.
Now they’re stuck with their genetics,
hateful genes times four.
And we’ll all be better off
with seeing them no more.

Dabbled in flat earth a bit,
obsessed now by horizon.
Ted Cruz and red shoes a hit.
It’s all on Verizon.
Aliens and reptile men
do not vote by mail.
Take the ink, just not the pen.
Society’s a jail.
Next week we’ll see Repo wit,
akin to torture porn.
X streamed violence. scary shit,
nightly, into morn.
Into mourning’s where we should go,
grieving for our nation.
If you should stumble on their show,
quickly, change the station.

Just when you thought insanity
could not go up a notch,
he criticized Michelle for shorting
death count on his watch.
“It’s tape delay, so I must say
I’ve killed so many more.
In this past week, I reached my peak.
It’s a tremendous score.
Quite soon two-hundred thousand
could be within my reach.
I’ll write a new Book of the Dead
for reading on the beach.
By the way, Mar-a-Lago
must be proclaimed a shrine.
And Romulus and Remus,
these two great Sons of mine,
have been named as apostles
to the best God, Money.
Ivanka’s been promoted
from Daughter up to Honey.
And Barron, I am sad to say,
has been put in a cage.
He needs to speak American
before he comes of age.
All I can say is watch me next week,
during My convention.
I’ll even have My Pillow man.
Now, what a great invention.
The crowd will be all virtual,
so there won’t be no shootin’.
And, just a hint, a secret guest.
His last name rhymes with Gluten.”

Mail-in Fraud’s demon god
will spit venom daily,
like William S. Paley,
threateningly, gaily.
He is sending signals
in his ever-changing hair.
Had to cut his ties with ties.
Deep surveillance there.
He’s rounding-up mail boxes
for a hostage situation,
first extortion broadcast live
on every FOX news station.
A caravan of migrant
postal workers heading north
may be employed to best avoid
miscounting and so forth.
Just stand in line and get your shots
and keep that social spacing.
And don’t look at our drone robots,
unless you’d like erasing.
Kill all your birds with one stone.
Daddy would be proud.
COVID/PUTIN2020
Come on, shout it loud !

Stamp out the old post office.
Bring back the pony express.
Kidnap the corner mailbox.
He’ll stop this mail-in mess.
Stand in line and vote in person.
Otherwise it’s ripe for fraud.
Absentee ballots outside Florida
are an attempt to hurt god.
His puppet postmaster general,
big donor Louis DeJoy,
has other irons in the fire:
he’s not a mail type of boy.
He’s getting rid of mail sorters.
He’s shut down all overtime.
A massive campaign to scale down the vote
must be construed as high crime.

There was a round and orange man with worms inside his heart.
His racist landlord daddy taught him tricks right from the start,
then handed him the billions he had scammed throughout his life.
But orange boy had blown most of it by his second wife.
He bankrupted casinos, hotels, universities.
He had construction done and often ran off on the fees.
By the time he bought his third wife, he owed many lenders.
These were guys who’d break your back and not just dent your fenders.
Many promises were made, and deals under the table.
Dirty deeds would be his life, as long as he was able.
Then, like a deep-fried chicken bone that’s plucked of all its meat,
he’ll be thrown, alone, defeated, out into the street,
laughed at behind closed doors by old cronies and fat cats,
doomed by his own deeds now to be carried off by rats.

Mike Pence will have to build a fence
across debate stage floors.
Mother says beware black women,
most of them are whores.
Mike will have to wear a mask
and horse racing style blinders.
Underwear, don’t even ask.
Christian penis binders.
If the lotus starts her hindu voodoo
up on stage, Ironed Mike might poo poo;
if she flies into a rage, Mother will protect him;
she swings a mean right cross.
Joe and Ho will not kill God.
Not while Mother’s boss.

Some kids go back to school today, as ordered by our leader,
protected by their masks and plexiglass.
It’s not the school of olden days; there is no Weekly Reader,
instead a constant threat inside the class.
Coronavirus is now every school’s new bully boy.
It wants your grandma’s life, not your lunch money.
As bad as learning was before, there were things you’d enjoy.
But now even the teacher’s acting funny.
There is no recess, hunker down at your desk for the day.
And conversation’s hard wearing a mask.
Whatever bonds you had with classmates likely went away.
You may have questions you’re afraid to ask.
Remember you’re polluting every item that you touch,
pens and pencils, paper, desk and books.
And if you overact, or else, perhaps, protest too much,
you’ll have to just imagine dirty looks.
For many kids the benefit of school is making friends,
relationships that sometimes last a life.
But this contamination’s likely where that habit ends.
Your education now’s a two-edged knife.
Honor students, future dropouts, average C attainers,
thrust into this petri dish of schooling,
keep your distance, wear your mask: these are both no-brainers.
This is an experiment unspooling.
Remember, no talking and no fooling !

Dick Nixon resigned on this date back in seventy-four.
It was the culmination of his long and ugly war.
In nineteen-fifty-eight, a crowd attacked him in Caracas.
We ignored their warning. Maybe we needed maracas.
We sat through his Checkers game. No, he was not a crook.
He was more than that, an evil not seen in our book.
Yes, he set the standard for Republicans to come.
Reagan, Bushes, one and two, and now this lying scum.
Malevolence is not excused by dumb.
And we will not forgive this crooked crumb.
But if he had the sense like Tricky Dick did to resign,
maybe some judge might cut him a deal along the line.

Trees are really not your friends,
from their roots up to their ends.
They like both the earth and sky.
But you, human, aren’t their guy.
They’ve seen you climb up their limbs,
abuse them like jungle gyms.
They’ve seen severed branches used
for club houses. Not amused !
They’ve suffered ropes for hammocks, swings,
and many more dastardly things.
They’ve been turned into toothpicks
and paperized, it seems, for kicks.
It’s no wonder they shed leaves.
That’s the way a sad one grieves.
They’ve been known in a good breeze
to fall upon their enemies.
Remember, trees are living things
and you are not their queens and kings.
So, when walking in the woods,
keep your damn hands off the goods.

Seventy-five years ago, on this very date,
one U.S.-dropped bomb made Japanese incinerate.
Some are still alive who survived this momentous blast.
It may be number one in our atonement for the past.
And just three days later came a second mushroom cloud.
Hiroshima, Nagasaki. Our worst selves were proud.
Yes, it helped to end world war where eighty million died.
But it’s not a moment that we look upon with pride.
“Little Boy” and “Fat Man” were the last A-bombs deployed.
They ushered in the age of fear which we have since enjoyed.
Through the cold war Russia sought to match our deadly missiles,
causing paranoia with loud sirens, bells and whistles.
Many years they stoked our fears as nukes proliferated.
As protection, MAD was vastly overrated.
Nowadays, nine countries possess the atomic bomb.
The more the scarier and subtle threats upset the calm.
The worldwide stockpile can be best described as just insane.
And our great leader once suggested nuke a hurricane.
Odds are even we won’t have another big event.
So we can wait to be wiped out by the environment.

When the mind is feeling barren
and the first cup is still full,
it’s time to start some sharin’
with those folks who throw the bull.
Social media jury, that island of pure fury,
has some room at their dock for your boat.
Some favor you’ll curry; there’s no need to worry.
Just throw anything out there to float.
Conspiracies. Black-Eyed Peas.
Get that hot pot stirring.
The dead still live. Ghosts roost in trees.
The black hole between then and during.
The cult of @ wears no foil hat.
The Sect of There hates motion.
The world will end with soup of bat.
There’s space ships in the ocean.
The dark are eating up the light
like breadcrumbs made of stars.
If it don’t hurt, then it’s not right.
And aliens sell cars.
If that can’t get you energized,
then brew another pot.
The chat just gets more super-sized.
Wait ’til you hear the plot.