The Man Who Made Today Famous?

Trump’s all over the news today,

trying to crowd out Juneteenth in his not so subtle way.
There’s even talk of what he knows of Roswell UFO’s,
his nazi signs on twitter and the pouches in his nose.
Manipulated video he posted was removed.
His mail-in-voting rants ramp up as if he was behooved.
The ralliers in Tulsa have been lined up for a week.
Some are there to touch his garment, some to hear him speak.
It’s turned into an all-day fest with stages in and out.
The BOK Center indoors will be a petri dish, no doubt.
And if he loses voters to the virus with his show,
he won’t care, he hates them, as not many seem to know.
He’s emphasized tomorrow will be one “hell of a night.”
For some it’s swell, for others, hell. Maybe he got that right.

Shotgun Blasts

The Supreme Court doesn’t like my xenophobic attitudes.

I thought I had a quid pro quo when hiring new dudes.
Neil Gorsuch stabbed me in the back because I don’t like gays.
Now Roberts with this DACA hack. It’s been a tough few days.
I thought I had this court wrapped up, no ifs, no ands or buts.
In my next term, I’ll have to find some really right wing nuts.
I still think Jeanine Pirro would bring to the court some class.
She has a voice that leaves no choice but thinking ’bout her ass.
I’d like to find a hanging judge to replace ‘mind-shot’ Ruth,
a smart guy who will listen to me, fuck-all with the truth.
I’d like to find another Kavanaugh, that much is clear,
but one without so many rapes and maybe drinks less beer.
In four more years I’d build a court that contours to my dreams.
They’d be all men. They’d be all friends. They’d be my white Supremes.

No More Castling

Jesus monkeys on a downhill slide.

Everybody who’s not white had better get inside.
If they’re gonna shoot us just for sleeping in our car,
someone’s got to step up, tell them this has gone too far.
One man just got choked to death for selling cigarettes.
Another lasted nine minutes, but couldn’t hold his breath.
And now they’re finding young black men are hanging from the trees.
Enough to make communities say stop this killing, please.
Systematic racism is born into white blood.
Those who try to deny this are washing sand with mud.
Kidnapped to a foreign land, enslaved four hundred years,
it’s no wonder we’ve projected on them our worst fears.
Someone keeps my family down for all those centuries
had best respect my anger now. C’mon now, white man, please.
There’s got to be a working out for us to heal the nation.
With twenty-twenty hindsight we must think of reparation.
Protestors in the streets call out to anyone who cares.
This country, like a chess match, moves on different color squares.

Toasted

There’s just no reason not to drink these days.

It makes things better in so many ways.
The pandemic doesn’t seem so bad
depending on the drinks you’ve had.
This is not to say whiskey’s a healer,
just that you may be soothed by tequila.
Bloody Mary tends to make the nightly news less scary.
Rum and coke turns anything White House into a joke.
Five straight shots of gin might make you think Republican.
And now with all the killings of black men by bad white cops,
some may find the pain is eased by drinking of the schnapps.
There’s little now to cheer, but some solace in good beer.
Some sturdy stout can black things out to be sorted tomorrow.
With things this bad, it’s mad, it’s sad, but alcohol dulls sorrow.

Blue Cake for Orange

Happy Birthday to you, from the people you slew,

from the generals exploded to ER’s overloaded.
Your ignorance viral threatened all our survival.
You should have gone home when impeached.
But now, like a whale bleached and beached,
you’re thrashing in seas swirled with peoples’ unease.
Your every solution seems instead dissolution,
your every conclusion inept. No promise kept,
You watched as folks wept. Hate abides.
You said there was good on both sides.
You love your rebel lore. We know not quite what for.
With blacks out of sorts, you won’t re-name forts,
you really don’t think black lives matter.
You show by your lies there are folks you despise.
It’s all mixed inside your daft patter.
Despite your mistakes, we’re mailing you cakes,
a nice gesture until you find
they’re all of the urinal kind.

Grunt Style

Just saw an ad for “grunt style” clothes.

They’ll push the army up our nose.
It’s bad enough troops in our streets,
and they’re not there for meet-and-greets,
but now we have to wear their duds,
and flounce around like Elmer Fudds?
There’s little charm in army fashions,
’bout as tasty as C-rations.
Olive green and basic black,
fresh off Uncle Sam’s clothes rack.
“Oh, Sarge, you look so fine to me.
What is that look called, infantry ?”
We know that rugged men like camo.
Gives them pockets for their ammo.
In certain states, accessories,
like M-15’s are bound to please.
But here comes a fashion warnin’,
can’t tell civvies from the sworn-in.
Countries become very scary
when they turn all military.
People, please consider class.
And shove that “grunt style” up their ass.

‘Tis Of Thee

Covid’s the canary in the coalmine,

opened up our eyes that things are not fine.
Things got out of hand and paralyzed the land.
Emergency responders were our front line.
Then, of course, we opened way too soon,
to appease this economic goon.
He said throw out your masks, and they do what he asks.
The truth is that the virus didn’t swoon.
And then there came the kneeling of the cop.
The t.v. murder blew the nation’s top.
There’s people in the street who will not take a seat
until they see this racial hatred stop.
We finally got the cause that we deserve,
and now’s perhaps the last chance to show nerve.
We cannot let this settle back into the same old kettle.
America, our path must take a curve.
If people take their message to the street,
things might get really hot in summer heat.
Stay strong and don’t back down, the leader is a clown.
This chance for change may not see a repeat.

Okie Dokie

His next campaign’s in Tulsa,

the perfect place to be.
He’ll say it was the spot where
he once ended slavery.
More famous, though,
for what had happened, 1921.
Three hundred blacks were massacred,
but he wants campaign fun.
And so, on Juneteenth he’ll be boasting,
to his base and liberal roasting.
He’ll claim love from every creed,
maybe not those deep in need.
He’ll song and dance like vamps in “Thriller,”
words by Stephen ‘Killer’ Miller.
Where’d you rather be instead
of standing on the Tulsa dead?
Oklahoma’s O.K.
But not on this day.
The reasons it’s racist abound.
You just don’t stump on killing ground.

Grave Consequences

He’s juggling that juggernaut

of big things sold and big things bought.
He owes a lot more than he owns,
which might explain his power jones.
And some of that he owes to mobs.
That’s why his children need good jobs.
They’ve kept him in imported wives,
who may now fear for their own lives.
His excess parties have been taped.
Who knows how many girls he’s raped?
And word is out huge payment’s due
sometime in twenty-twenty-two.
If he’s not still their top gun,
he might just cash his checks and run.
Of all the places he might hide,
a likely mob worm lives inside.
He’ll be flushed out and meet his maker.
That’s the odds for a risk taker.
The words on his memorial:
“He needed a tutorial.”

Bad Badges

Now we see why they’re called ‘pigs’ by some.

They get overheated in a scrum.
Swinging clubs to break protesting bones,
military gear gives them cajones.
Wading into crowds can make them vicious.
When did law enforcement turn pernicious?
The friendly policemen you see on t.v.
may not be fun in reality.
The country’s a cold case and surely not a place
you want to be unless you’ve got a gun.
But many folks who don’t quite feel that way
still seem to be shot dead as if for fun.
Oh, sure, there’s good and bad on both sides.
Sometimes that is true.
But bad gets worse. That is the curse.
And then the good die, too.

		
			


	
	



			
				



	

		
Trump Card

		
	


				
	

				
						
His four beats your eight.


That call was really great.


His eight beats your ace.


What a sour face.


His run beats your run.


Because he’s number one.


His full house must win.


Even if Eric’s in.


His flush conquers all.


A bright and fiery ball.


Best throw in your chips.


And button up those lips.


Don’t dare question the deal.


He’ll tell you you’re not real.


He’s playing with just half a deck.


Now ante up your welfare check.


You want yourself a better game.


You’d best go back from where you came.

		
			


	
	



			
				



	

		
Mars Barr

		
	


				
	

				
						
Barr is a scar on the face of the nation.


Justice is taking an unpaid vacation.


His efforts to cover the president’s back


have knocked the whole law system way out of whack.


His pug smug demeanor and effortless lies


reveal his humanity is a disguise.


He operates brazenly, no hint of stealth,


his big task to help the rich up their own wealth.


When this movie ends with the country asunder,


and he is not tried, it will make people wonder.


So what will it take? Just give us a reason.


Barr should be the star of the cast charged with treason.

		
			


	
	



			
				



	

		
General Disturbance

		
	


				
	

				
						
Colin Powell drops the trowel, calling Trump a liar.


Prez says nah-nah Iraq war, calling pants on fire.


Generals have generally come down on forty-five.


Better to have done that while their jobs were still alive.


Maybe they will get together, form a voting bloc,


persuade all the veterans their commander is a crock.


Ousted from his office, he could still continue rants,


but his only listeners, his pet farm of army ants.


General Bonespurs, wandering his battlefield with friends,


wearing just his long red tie and camouflage Depends.



		
			


	
	



			
				



	

		
Depressionistic

		
	


				
	

				
						
We could be back to the roaring 20’s soon,


the roaring of fires and the market in a swoon.

Army’s in place on the streets in case there is a riot.

Grump is salivating, thinking big lead salad diet.

Hobos on the White House lawn, stirring cans in embers.

With a closer look, you’ll see they all are cabinet members.

Melania will sew some patches for the poor to wear.

“Don’t Bully Me,” “I Am Hungry.” She really doesn’t care.

The word out is New Jersey will become a ‘Tourist Camp.’

Take clothes because who knows if you’ll ever see a ramp.

		
			


	
	



			
				



	

		
Starchy Bunker

		
	


				
	

				
						
So, he went to the bunker, but just to inspect.


If he’d gone there to cower, his base would object.

He sees his command as to serve and protect

all the good white civilians, as you would expect.

He just wanted to see the provisions set in.

Eric needs toys, Melania gin.

He hopes that Ivanka brings stunning sleepwear.

And then there’s the huge case of stuff for his hair.

Junior’s decided he must bring his gun.

He thinks hunting looters could be some great fun.

As for him, he just stocked in a few magazines,

the ones with the centerfolds of torture scenes.

He was not in the bunker to hide, no siree.

He probably won’t go there until World War III.

		
			


	
	



			
				



	

		
Countdown Continues

		
	


				
	

				
						
Feel sorry for the bible.

Him holding it seems a lot like libel.

Gas the peaceful protest horde

for p.r. shots on twitter board.

Unleash the army on D.C

as if he’s facing anarchy.

Aren’t people still dying of his plague?

As his smoke and bad jokes make things vague.

The countries who now laugh at our misfortune

have all been victims of his vast distortion.

It seems more certain civil war is in his plans.

He’s got the guns, the bad A.G. and insane fans.

He sees himself flying away like wild Rhett Nero,

his number forty-five slashed through, surrounded by a ZERO.

		
			


	
	



			
				



	

		
Little Red Roster

		
	


				
	

				
						
He’s killed a hundred thousand,

now he’s hiding behind one.

He told us from the start

he could shoot someone with a gun.

We thought that was hyperbole,

and gave it ‘what the heck.’

But now here he is kneeling down

on half the country’s neck.

He’d kill us all, just look at him.

You’ll see it in his face.

The only thing he needs to do

is spare his loyal base.

The white supremes and Boogaloos,

this country’s underbelly,

are seen with arms at protests

if you just turn on your telly.

The MAGA boys and lock-up girls

are all hot air and smarmy.

But underneath their cover lies

a snarling racist army.

He plays to crowds of people

whom he wouldn’t even touch.

And yet they do his bidding

like they need his evil crutch.

If vote-by-mail does not sail,

this could be our last election.

Defeat this clown or we go down.

Faster than One Direction.

		
			


	
	



			
				



	

		
Mourning Joe

		
	


				
	

				
						
These riots cause diversion

from our first, worst aversion.

The king is pouring gasoline

on everything that’s not the queen.

No one starts a greater fire

than the first world’s biggest liar.

First he’ll tell you it’s just smoke.

When you burn that’s, like, his joke.

Fire starting has its reason.

It’s the best cover for treason.

Anyone who drops a dime:

heat’ll get them every time.

With a sheriff like Bic Barr,

protesters will not get far.

There’s some good in every crowd.

Don’t decry his crimes out loud.

Look, there go some left wing looters!

What if they burn down a Hooters?

Bad for the economy.

He can’t stand autonomy.

Cops kill blacks is one allusion.

Covers up his own collusion.

It’s a standard real time show.

Much as was his quid pro quo.

Nothing can’t be hidden, so,

set ’em up again, please, Joe.

		
			


	
	



			
				



	

		
Grand Obsolescence

		
	


				
	

				
						
A pop-up map, 100G, with color code vicinity.


This guy will raise the stakes into infinity.


How soon before it’s turned into a lottery?


Prepare your urns and best invest in pottery.




So let his golfing stand as Our Great Pun.


In crimes sans passion, he is number one.


Considering the damage he has done,


if he’s released /unleashed, long may he run.







		
			


	
	



			
				



	

		
Trading Floor Lore

		
	


				
	

				
						


O gather thee now, Wall Street traders of death.


But, before work you must sign a waiver,


in case on the floor you do take your last breath,


no recompense can you then savor.


Go shouting your numbers and capital gains,


the NYSE crowd way thinner.


Who said to make money you have to have brains?


The stock market’s always a winner.


And why, in this time of the country’s demise,


does the Dow Jones continue to rise?


The answer, of course, should come as no surprise.


The players are rich and the game is their prize.