School kids working factories or maybe down the mine.
History repeats itself. Give this baby time.
They don’t need no ABC’s when con’s the bottom line.
Two and two do not add up. The system is the crime.
Underemployed children are the scourge of working nations.
K through twelve have up to now been on some long vacations.
Our workforce will incorporate them through dire machinations.
They’ll get ‘fair’ pay and then, mid-day, be treated to C-rations.
They’ll get time outs to play outside on the merry-go-round.
We know if we work them too hard, they’ll go underground.
No more under-employment then, the reasoning is sound.
Hard proof the world’s most heartless leader right here can be found.
Floss Voss
Just send your kids to school, fool,
never mind their health.
Their future is nothing
without this country’s wealth.
So they get sick.
They’ll heal up quick.
It’s like a sacrifice.
And some will die. Boo hoo, we’ll cry.
But it will turn out nice.
Our bounceback will be world renowned,
the best by many measures,
despite the bodies underground
and trashing all our treasures.
Horton Fears a WHO
With it’s news of airborne COVID spread,
Horton knows he’s notching up more dead.
“A person’s a person no matter how small,”
but estimates say he can’t kill them all.
The WHO was not perfect, we all have our flaws.
But that’s not allowed in the quirk of his laws.
It’s all been a hoax which the WHO perpetrated,
said Horton to those who he secretly hated.
A death count’s a death count, but let it be small.
He really sees no use for numbers at all.
WHO’s Next
He’s putting out a bounty on the bounty story leaker.
He’ll fill him up with Chlorox, pour it down him by the beaker.
He hasn’t said a word to Putin, playing Don the Meeker.
But his base is eroding, maybe even mister speaker.
I dream the day Pelosi will just shred him by her laugh,
when Shifty Schiff steps up to cut the big red tie in half.
And how about when Chuckles Schumer steps up to the mike,
screams, “Who’s hungry?”, unveils T’s cheese head upon a pike.
National Pastime
Ennio Morricone’s dead, a great blow to his fandom.
“The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly,” should be our current anthem.
Columbus fell in Baltimore, a year after Showalter.
When there’s no Trumpet in the news, these poems start to falter.
We can, of course condemn his constant railings of deceit,
his lumping in with thugs and mugs protesters in the street.
And damn his lying lying lies and flaunting of the law.
His reinterpretation of everything we just saw.
His white flag to the virus, sentencing good souls to death.
His calculated threats to our long freedom’s every breath.
Yes, our spaghetti western’s winding down in tragic fashion,
playing now out in your streets: see fire, guns and smashin’.
The police are not your friends and your friends aren’t who they were.
Entire lives lived in high contrast now are just a blur.
Sometimes words can take two strikes, as if it doesn’t matter.
But it’s the bottom of the ninth. We need a better batter.
Statue Force
Watch out, here comes the Statue Force,
new product of his peeve,
where broken rebels stay the course
so we can proudly grieve.
A garden of the fallen,
traitors, baiters and the like,
will have protesters bawlin’.
It’s a massive dummy strike.
Along with southern founders,
and great heroes of the war,
will be scoundrels, scum and bounders
who knew what this country’s for.
It’s a get-back revolution,
fighting leftist angry mobs,
who’d take away our statues,
wives, sons, mothers and our jobs.
The Statue Force will fight, of course,
for our right to bear arms.
And many do ride horses.
It’s just one of their vast charms.
Our monuments will save us
from this “cancel culture” wave.
Their memory will engrave us
with the silence of the brave.
Hoax IV
This is a hoax.
There’s no blood on my hands.
This red you see…from the Red Sea sands.
I tried to part it but it turned too antsy.
That bastard Moses must have used something really fancy.
For my next miracle, I’ll give my best friends millions,
while mailing out free postage stamps to poor folks by the trillions.
No one has done as much for those people as me.
Amongst the poor I’m second to their great god Wayne Guthrie.
I’ve heard good things about him; it seems like he was fun.
But I’d like the cops to beat the shit out of his son,
like God did to Jeezy, Weezy and those breezy cats,
smote ’em with a thousand stones and several baseball bats.
Anyway, these bloody hands, a hoax flown by the libs.
When I get through with them, they’ll be in pampers and pink bibs.
It’s not that I hate Democrats or hope they will be killed.
Though there’s a few I’d like to see their bodies diced and milled.
It’s just with all their lying and their spying and their tricks,
I can’t have fun with anyone, gangsters, Barr or chicks.
I’d really like to stay and chat, but have to go, because,
I’m flying to the badlands to break all the COVID laws.
Happy fourth to all our fine soldiers, living or dead.
Apologize to those who had a price put on their head.
Time Off for Good Behavior
We can’t blame the doctor if he needs a long vacation.
He’s been dealing months now with a very stupid nation.
Kids can’t stay indoors now, though that’s all some ever did.
Had to wait for PPE until the proper bid.
And, until this week, we lacked consensus on the mask.
That and social distancing fell to “Don’t tell. Don’t ask.”
The king just will not grace his face with sensible protection.
Throughout this pandemic, he’s been our second infection.
Mike Pence, too, kept us in suspense with his white christian stance.
His whole affect is quite suspect; he might be in a trance.
And dealing with spokesmodel Kayleigh has to be a strain.
She said she’d never do it, but there’s lying on her brain.
And so, Doc, if you want to get away, perhaps go hiking,
there’re many countries where this virus is not spiking.
Mailed Quail
Oh, first I went and shot a quail.
And then I sent it in the mail.
And now I’m looking for some bail.
I guess that was an epic fail.
Quail, quail, everybody rail!
This is the chorus of the mailed quail’s tale.
Good sir, I did not realize
one could not shoot a bird that flies.
And for that I apologize.
In future times, I’ll be more wise.
O, it was not so much the killing,
but the mailing got you illing?
I find that assessment chilling.
Birds can fly air mail if willing.
Quail, quail, everybody rail!
This is the chorus of the mailed quail’s tale.
Good sir, I had to mail that beast
to a destination east.
It was his last wish at least
that he make the family feast.
But, if my actions still give pause,
arrest me and all my in-laws.
If one last banquet’s not good cause,
throw me in the eagle’s claws.
Quail, quail, everybody rail!
This is the ending of the mailed quail’s tale.
Majority Blues
Please don’t kill my darling filibuster,
says Moscow Mitch with what poise he can muster.
Just put yourself in my shoes, he will bluster.
But, soon, he’ll be abandoned, just like Custer.
He’s afraid Dem Sens will stampede left,
and take away the bullshit they can heft.
Abolishing obstruction would be deft,
leaving him defenseless, senseless and bereft.
You’ll regret it if you change our ways,
says Mitch in fear of minority days.
He used that veto power like a craze.
But now he’s old and this is a new phase.
Cloud of Rhyme
My rhyming steam roller sometimes hits a boulder
and topples down into a gulch.
With wheel to the shoulder, I sit and grow older.
Sometimes brain fodder turns to mulch.
An idea will goad, get me back on the road,
get my eyes on the unbroken line.
I can drive fifty-five while my thoughts come alive,
and it’s those times I really feel fine.
But there’s other times, though, where I do call a tow,
unable to rise from the mire.
Those times, I feel mean. I could drink gasoline,
but in past it has failed to inspire.
Recocking the brain is so often a strain that at times
it feels better off empty.
A night off with beer or some holiday cheer
can oftentimes be pretty tempty.
Then comes the steam roller, all puffing out smoke,
and the frontal lobe suddenly fills.
And out comes a cloud of rhyme, prose and bad jokes,
enough to give thinking men chills.
Fore Heads
The king heads to Mount Rushmore on the third.
He wants to shit on their heads like a bird.
The giant three slave owners,
enough to give him boners;
he likes the fact they won’t get in a word.
The worry is he’ll climb up on their faces,
searching for the one that he replaces.
The best bet is old Abe, emancipation’s babe.
The king would like to modify his stasis.
“Then I’ll be number one,”
(points up with tiny thumb)
“the top Republican chief of all time.”
He’ll plant a couple caps,
wipe Lincoln off the maps,
and say it was a joke and not a crime.
Forth of July
One-hundred-fifty fighter jets will fly over D.C.
They’ll all be dropping pamphlets that say, “Get out of jail free!”
A red-faced horde of sycophants will do the MAGA dance.
Mike Pence will nod his head and smile as if he’s in a trance.
Mini tanks will crush a group of mannequin protestors.
William Barr will sell his soul and ask for more investors.
The flattened curve will be rolled out and used for kiddie rides.
The king has asked they don’t wear masks, or else he’ll tan their hides.
A small parade of golf cart seniles will all chant, “White Power!”
Looking for clowns, Eric will, of course, be lost one hour.
Stars and stripes and bars and snakes will be most proudly waved.
The king will rant about the great great monuments he’s saved.
And, as the grand finale, he’ll do something he likes best,
unleash a squad of armored cops, put ‘thugs’ under arrest.
So, be aware, and do take care, if you take to the street.
D.C. in flames, amongst endgames, might seem to him quite sweet.
Unaffordable Carelessness
Take away our health care at the crux of the pandemic,
erasing all Obama’s done with malice most systemic,
the blatant boss of all that’s lost is king of the unkind,
and lighting fires everywhere that he can leave behind.
His legacy will be a black hole in the Constitution,
which he will brag of endlessly when in the institution.
His processed head will wind up on the Rushmore wall of evil,
between Jeffrey Daumer and the long-snouted boll weevil.
One hundred twenty thousand dead and infrastructure rotting,
but he has not one healing plan amidst his vicious plotting.
The privileged will inherit Earth in his cruel life’s rendition.
He’s our bedsore, a money whore, our country’s precondition.
If he should lie before we wake, it comes as no surprise.
He’d kill us all, we must stand tall and open up our eyes.
What he will do before November will take years to fix.
He doesn’t mind. He’s lost his mind. He does it all for kicks.
Perverted Birdsong
Ducks fly south and geese fly north.
Don’t know why this back and forth.
Hawks fly east and doves fly west.
There’s one bird that flew the best.
THE DODO. Yes, the dodo,
the whole avian kingdom’s Quasimodo.
That bird in his prime was not the chub you see in books.
He flew like a pigeon and his bill was off the hook.
On his isle, there was no vile predator to fear.
So, he gained weight, became ground-bound and drank a lot of beer.
THE DODO. Weep for the dodo.
Modelo, for him, became a no-no.
Dutch landed sailors got them drunk on Grolsch and Amstel Lite.
The birds, grown fat, no longer flew nor put up a good fight.
Extinction now leaves only skulls and bones to understand.
Lewis Carroll gave his face to them in Wonderland.
THE DODO. Say goodbye dodo,
The only one who’s seen one since is Frodo.
Dead Lives Matter
The Feds have found a whole new way to keep us in the red.
They sent a million stimulus checks out to people dead.
More than a billion dollars worth. The IRS is ripped.
We’d like to send it back but grandpa winterized his crypt.
With his noted history of evil machinations,
perhaps Drumpf meant this all along as post-life reparations.
Razing Arizona
His trip fell on the day the state’s coronavirus doubled.
With temps nearing a hundred, you could tell it might be troubled.
The first stop was in Yuma, just to visit his dear wall.
Two workers just got sick out there, so that was a good call.
Then it was on to Phoenix rally, in Dream City Church.
Checked that there are no ramps there, so he won’t have to lurch.
They claimed their church was safe because of special air filtration.
Not by God, but by some members’ fast ionization.
Experts said their claim had no base in reality.
Come on down, don’t wear a mask, and we will wait and see.
Arizona’s virus growth rate, fastest in the states,
seems to show this rally was a tempting of the fates.
Going Downhill
The rent is due, we’ve got the flu.
The petting zoo is closed.
The world shut down, our reigning clown
through all the warnings dozed.
But now we’re opened up again,
as if nothing occurred.
We’re back, he claims, though flu sustains.
Do not believe one word.
As the whole world stood aghast
at our lack of prevention,
he said we’re fine, it fades in time.
He rules with blind invention.
His comeback rally failed by half,
enflamed his aggravation.
And his solution, do not laugh,
is cut back immigration.
Those foreigners will take our jobs,
we must even the score.
It’s mean, it’s shrill, it’s overkill.
The work’s not there no more.
The Senate will do what he asks.
They’re just his rubber stamp.
The king of all who won’t wear masks
descends a hellish ramp.
Sooner or Later
K-Pop bopped the big gum drop.
His orangeness was steamingly aware.
This opening was nothing but a costly photo op.
But when he reached the mike, his fans weren’t there.
He looked around and saw an upper deck of empty seats,
then rambled out a racist monologue.
He blamed the evil media and protests in the streets
It seems he had been punked, the fascist dog.
The millions he expected reserved rally tix online,
but K-Pop ‘stans’ had organized this ruse.
So, for an hour all he did was crazy rant and whine,
thinking of the staffers he’ll abuse.
He praised confederates and said protesters broke the law.
He said he’d jail all burners of the flag.
When it was over, it was clear this rally was a flaw.
There’s not much left now in his hateful bag.
Can’t Spell Unstable without Tulsa
Goons and loons and mean cartoons,
waiting for a week for their messiah,
now rejoice the day arrived with patriotic tunes.
Tonight they’ll get to hear their king, the liar.
Not just folks from Tulsa, but people near and far,
in their best U.S. paraphernalia,
have made the pilgrimage by plane, bus, truck and car.
It’s like a carnival whose theme is failure.
Most won’t wear masks and no one asks
to keep the recommended social distance.
In his holy image his base basks.
They’ll jam themselves indoors at his insistence.
The covid spray that rules the day
will flout its germy science in the night.
Two weeks from now you’ll hear these Okies say,
“Perhaps ignoring experts wasn’t right.”