Let US Prey

Lord, bless the germs within this pew,

and hope that casualties are few.
This virus makes the pious wary.
Who knew hymns could be so scary.
Because the wafer stock is thin,
the hosts’s hydroxychloroquine.
And there’s a substitute for wine,
bleach or something alkaline.
Congregation lambs to slaughter.
Wash your hands with holy water.
Pray that God has you protected.
Half the church will be infected.

A day at the Beach

I-phones, drones and lovely bones.
Wandering sand-distance police.
Keep your mask on in the surf.
Stay ten feet apart at least.
Don’t touch seaweed, don’t pet crabs.
Look out for the sharks.
Swat at anything that grabs.
Don’t go near the body outline marks.

Rocket Roger Cress

Little yellow trumpet bells, Rocket Cress by name,

found beside familiar roads, sunshine is its game.
In the mustard family, cabbage’s moist cousin,
let it grow to flowering. You might want a dozen.
Some consider it invasive, find its presence nervy.
They may not know that the cress was once used to cure scurvy.
When its family gathers, it is quite a great array.
Bok choy, turnips, broccoli and rutabagas, hey !
Rocket Cress, God has blessed you with great diversity,
but a taste so bitter, kids hate universally.
“More for us,” the grownups cry, “bring on the collard greens.”
And mustard seed,” cry those who like to frequent hot dog scenes.

Game Changer

This president’s a rascal,

a lot like Eddie Haskell;

he certainly has Beaver on the brain.
He’s taking medicine unproved,
behavior surely not behooved.
It’s further proof the man has gone insane.
The drug is for malaria,
and now he’s caused hysteria.
The public bought his bleach tips the last time.
Hydroxychloroquine is now seen as a win.
If people die, his advice is a crime.
Some say he’s dumb as a rock,
but he probably has stock
in the company that makes this drug.
If it turns into disaster,
you won’t see a person faster,
sweeping evidence under the rug.
Some say perhaps he is lying,
totally unfazed by dying,
as long as he lives to rule the world.
He is like a dragon hiding,
when the people do his biding.
If not, watch his vicious wings unfurled.

The New Cover Up

The White House staff is wearing masks.

They’ll do whatever the boss asks.
He, of course, will still wear none.
Must remain the ‘chosen one.’
Even Jared, Kernel Kush,
must obey the face mask push.
Bill Barr wears the only one he owns.
It’s emblazoned with a skull and bones.
Ivanka sports a decorator line.
It encourages “Just Die, Don’t Whine.”
Kellyanne’s shows a dead cupid,
printed below: “I’m With Stupid.”
One man’s mask says “Don’t Blame Me!”
He’s our hero: Doc Fauci.

2020 On The Wall

Another watchdog had to go.

He sniffed around Mike Pompeo.
Big Pharma will make our vaccine.
The king is dead. God save the queen.
Pelosi got her aid bill passed.
Tomorrow morning, she’ll be gassed.
Grocery prices on the rise.
Next year, this time: Catsup Surprise!
Space Force has a brand new flag,
“super duper missile” tag.
JCPenney goes asunder.
How’d it stay so long’s the wonder.
Bag pollution’s back in style.
Eco just walked the green mile.
All rules off, all laws contested.
B. Hussein must be arrested.
Lock ’em up or kill ’em all.
Twenty-twenty on the wall.

He Keeps a Crippling Neuron Blaster as a Pet

It’s hurricane season and things could get pretty wet.

The felt tip forecaster pronounced Kansas a good bet.
It’s hit the beaches season and soon they’ll be overrun.
Despite the social warnings, some will, sadly, become chum.
It’s sharks amongst us season and, so, when you see a fin,
swim your ass toward safer shores, ’cause you ain’t gonna win.
It’s go to deadly work now season, first we’ve ever seen.
Does this all end up with marches? Or was that a dream?

Go Directly

William Barr’s a tool of the game Monopoly.

He’s become the reigning king of “Get Out of Jail Free.”
He’s destroyed the last vestige of our democracy.
Law’s a joke. Order’s bespoke. There’s no land of the free.
In Canada, this would be a game misconduct penalty.
O, Canada, again to you we’ll flee,
just like we did in a low point in history.
That’s not to infer Vietnam was all that tragic.
Trump broke their death record.
It just disappeared like magic.
William Barr has gone too far, but that has been his way.
Unmitigated tool he’s been since his appointment day.
Now he’s assembled the A Team of released guilty crooks,
who all can work with Russia to cook the election books.
We’re all doomed. The world’s mushroomed. Just hang us out on hooks.
O, Jesus, how did you not know the devil had come back?
How did you miss the anguished cries of those stretched on the rack?
A brazen white dictator builds a crazed symbolic wall
to divide those who will live from those who have to fall.
If you can’t step in here, man, then good God save us all.

Mothers of Intention

Happy Mother’s Day to all the mothers still alive,

those who weren’t sent under by our president’s deep dive.
And sorry, too, to any mothers out there who lost sons,
whether it’s to tiny germs or giant army guns.
Would have liked to send out to the store and get some flowers,
but, for reasons unforeseen, they’re keeping summer hours.
Would have loved to buy her the best chocolates or a car,
but she’ll have to settle for Airwick and a Mars bar.
Special wishes also to those mothers who are nurses.
For your work, may you all be rewarded with fat purses.
And mothers who have lost their jobs or teaching kids at home,
may love and patience get you through this time of Blunder Dome.

Amnesty Incorporated

Saw Barr’s latest fractured fairy tale,

letting one more bad guy out of jail.
Flynn insures us lies can win,
with the blessings of Putin.
Donnie got right on the horn,
told Vlad a new star is born.
Manafort and Stone now wait
for their coming open gate.
It’s a stone cold Barr procession,
all bets off on all confession.
Liars, schemers, cons and grifters
loosed on Broadway with the Drifters.
Both FOX and the Christian right
will be getting tight tonight.
Russia’s now our friend again.
New beginning of the end.

Gazebo Nights

When the fellows brought their cellos,

it got mellow straight away.

All the hangers-on and horns-in-pawn

of course would have their say.

And the violins screamed violence,

while violas sweetly bloomed,

as the harp came in like silence,

when the kettle drum then boomed,

all the dockside shook like thunder,

echoing came voices, crying.

We have but one stage of wonder.

And then all the rest is dying.

Charter Fool

Betsy DeVos is like expired mental floss.

She founders in the dirt from days gone by.
Her changes to Obama title nine rules have a cost.
It makes rape much more fun if you’re a guy.
This is a “fuck you” moment for the MeToo movement, too.
That rapes go unreported is the fear.
The onus on the male shifts now, it’s on the other shoe.
Brett Cavanaugh is probably boofing beer.
Her roots are in soft money and a righteous christian god.
Her Amway founding husband is her source.
With great love for her country, she intends to bear the rod.
There might be vouchers now for intercourse.
She and her husband own a group of brain performance centers.
She thinks schools should have guns to combat bears.
Her family owns ten yachts. She lists Chris Craft and God as mentors.
Her maiden name, Prince. Hence the crown she wears.

5/4/70

I remember Kent State and how it changed my life.
Had a pass from G.I. training, was in Frisco with my wife.
When I saw it on t.v., I said I can’t go back.
Supposed to save our country, baby, not go on attack.
She flew east, I’d follow soon, and in the airport then,
I saw Ravi Shankar and the great Doctor Spock, Ben.
Realized these were signs of changing times and hit the road.
Slept that night at UC Berkeley, took the fork that bode.
It was June before I hit New England’s salty shores.
I was called deserter then, ranked somewhere below whores.
When I turned myself in, I was hollowed out by wrath.
Their view from a different lens was drugged sociopath.
And so I was locked in awhile with madmen and drug addicts.
Mostly I just stood and stared, didn’t cause much static.
In September, I was tossed out, next month had a son.
Yes, I remember Kent State as a soldier with no gun.

This Is Not a Hoax !

(“everyone to get from the streets”)
The murder hornets are coming !
It’s just what the doctor ordered.
The honey bees are bumming.
Decapitation’s sordid.
They’re on their way from overseas.
They might give you a buzz.
They might not give you a disease.
But they will sting you, cuz.
Two-inch long and orange headed,
cloaked in shiny black.
You can see where this is headed,
if I don’t turn back.
Easy now, it’s killer hornets
who’re the present threat.
Don’t be greeting them with cornets.
They’re the big bad bet.
This time we must be prepared,
and ready for the swarm.
These things, too, will not be scared
off when the weather’s warm.

Bughouse

It’s hard to come to terms with germs.

They’re just so god-damned small.
It’s quite unfair to know they’re there,
yet not see them at all.
If they would just emit a glow
or make some tiny sound,
then we could wrangle them and throw
their dread souls on the ground.
We spray in their direction
and sometimes meet success,
but they have hiding spots galore.
It really is a mess.
We fight this daily battle,
a cold front pitched in hell.
And now we find, O most unkind,
they’ve moved inside as well.

Losing Face

[Throwback Thursday]

I’ve fallen out of grace with my face.

It’s now defined by lines of time and place.

a roadmap etched with pathways to the past,

a drying parchment never meant to last.

Indoor Games

Guess I’ll count the forks again.

The prize this time: a nip of gin.
I know the spoon count now by heart.
And knives were there right from the start.
Yes, counting silverware is in my guide
on stupid things to do while stuck inside.
Another thing is taking matched-up socks,
and dump them all together in a box.
Then tie one to another one that isn’t its same color.
You thought counting cutlery was slow, but this is duller.
A zen-like exercise is match your breathing to your cats.
But then they go chase shadows. Slow it down, you dirty rats!
I gather all the cobwebs thinking I can make a scarf.
But sometimes all the dead bugs inside make me want to barf.
I scrub the tiles with tooth brushes and paint things on my teeth.
I pick up every seat cushion and collect what’s beneath.
I run in tiny circles. I call this the white tornado.
I use push pins and paper clips to make mister potato.
I look for Jesus faces in the cabinet doors and floor.
I’ve thrown some deep hail Mary’s but they’re not caught any more.
The last chapter of my guide
gives you the tells on if you’ve died.
If you’ve not eaten in a week or more.
If your body lies, unmoving, on the kitchen floor.
If a paper held beneath your nose does not show breath,
odds are you can read my epilogue, called come, meet death.

What’s With Doc?

Where has Doctor Fauci gone?

This week he was off the lawn.
Without him we have no voice,
inject bleach our only choice ?
Maybe he’s in forced lockdown,
caged and tied up by the clown.
I don’t think this thought too often,
but he’d fit in a small coffin.
Tied into a podium,
stuffed with lye and sodium,
he could be tossed out to sea.
Goodbye, Mariner Fauci.
Maybe he’s just lying low,
guarded by a goon named Joe.
Maybe on extended rounds?
Need we search the White House grounds?
If he’s not at Monday’s ‘presser,’
we’ll be seeking a confessor.
Bring our fine physician back,
or we’ll commence our attack.
Check for orange fingerprints,
nylon hair and other hints.
Pray that he is still alive.
Bring him back now, forty-five!

A Cleaner Smoothie

FOX says he wasn’t trying to be mean.

He’s just a real big fan of Mister Clean.
So, if you’ll open wide, he’ll pour some shit inside.
And then you will be dead like Orson Bean.
O, the good die young when Trump has fun.
Pandemic’s like a game that has no rules.
We wish his base was deaf, not dumb.
Yet no one else would follow him but fools.
Have you tried the Drano? It comes in cherry flavor.
If you listen to him, you’ll be doing us a favor.
In times of need his m.o.’s greed. He’ll clean you out inside.
And then he won’t care one damn wink when he hears that you’ve died.
Trump continues to insist he’s “like” a scientist.
He knows his pills; it gives one chills. It’s schooling that he missed.
He doesn’t like to read at all, as one can plainly see.
He considers words his invisible enemy.
He’s buying stock in Bab-O, Bon Ami and even Comet.
Just sprinkle it on chicken wings and then try not to vomit.
A little Tide or Ajax could quite help out with the healing.
Don’t worry, for a little while you’ll have that washed out feeling.
If chemicals don’t kill you, it’s a sign you’re getting well.
Go on FOX and tell those wimpy liberals go to hell.
Sure, your breathing’s labored and perhaps you might relapse.
Relax. get to the market. Buy some Lysol ‘fore you collapse.

Cashing In Your Checks

Go ahead and bet your stimulus check.

A grand just will not do it, so go crazy,
what the heck.
However, there’s no horses racing.
Blame the social distance spacing.
Baseball, even football, might be gone.
Pubs are closed, so there’s no darts.
Bookmakers have closed their charts.
Maybe bet on Jarts out on the lawn?
There must be a worldwide pool based on the over/under.
Things get sick, and really quick when everything’s asunder.
But these statistics won’t resolve until the plague has passed.
And, by that time, the best bet is your check’s not gonna last.
So, go and spend your money on some other stimuli.
Go down to the corner, see the guy who knows a guy.
Buy two dozen blackbirds, maybe, bake ’em in a pie.
Bet the wad with god on all the teardrops that you’ll cry.
The check is not a bolster or a perk.
It’s just another joke that doesn’t work.
Try licking off the signature to see if you’ll get high.
Worst thing that could happen, you’ll choke on his name and die.