Isolation Nuts

Hey, lets go down to Georgia now it’s open.

We can catch a film and have a meal.
So what if we’ll be sitting in a thicket of the sick.
It really doesn’t seem that big a deal.
You can get your hair done and I can hit the gym.
At last we’ll be back in society.
Of course we might be criticized as rabid or as dim.
But epithets don’t mean that much to me.
Be careful where you wipe your nose,
and look down when you sneeze.
When you get home, just wash your clothes
and spray them with Febreeze.
We’ve been stuck such a long time in the house.
But now we’re told some states have gotten through it.
Our world became a prison cell and quiet as a mouse.
I frankly don’t know how Anne Frank could do it.

Halftime Pep Talk

An invisible enemy crawls

right through and over walls.
There is no way that it can be detected.
It smears its sickly path
down former hallowed halls.
And no one’s found a way to be protected.
So, now that it’s been loosed,
you might as well read Proust.
You’re going to be inside for quite some time.
Just think of isolation as much needed vacation.
Stay in. Relax. Not working’s not a crime.
When groceries get low, into the world you’ll go,
with mask and cap and goggles all in place.
Don’t worry ’bout the look; what takes you off the hook
is no one else can even see your face.
And stay away from news. You’ll only blow a fuse.
Catch up on all that music that you missed.
Pick up that old guitar. There’s many chords to barre.
Appropriately, you could learn the blues.
Then, when the world renews, put on your dancing shoes.
But know the world will never be the same.
Just give it all you’ve got. Go on and take a shot.
Surrender now would surely be a shame.

Another Part Starts

testing, testing… part TWO…

I’m on joe + and flying low this morning
every button pushed another warning
and seeing guys with rifles
crying ’cause they can’t go out performing
it all seems like screams
from toxic dreams and global warming
the whole damned place diseased
and rich men to be pleased
the goons and brutes appeased
and meanwhile in this shit pile
laws against pollution eased
plus got his liberators cheesed
I will need big joe to get through this week
life accelerates beyond my speed
did I dream of something once called baseball
who’s helming this chariot of greed?
my only goal is stay alive until mayday
and hope the angels scare the ghosts away

Lockdown Blues

The Boogaloo Boys are ready to go,

called to arms by their great orange chief.
The coming reopening, bloody but brief,
will certainly be a shit show.
Reopen our states, the prisoners scream.
Pandemic’s a liberal’s scam.
Rush into the streets and don’t give a damn.
You can’t kill America’s dream.
The stores will sell out, the market lift off.
Let baseball and dancing resume.
Cast off the left wing prophesies of doom.
Don’t worry about that slight cough.
Bring out your reb flags, the south is now free.
No old laws can stand in our way.
The old and the sick have both had their hay day.
Now let them into the woods flee.
Some see the chief’s slant as a new civil war.
Oh, sure there’ll be some it encumbers.
But look at the last one’s great numbers.
The Boogaloo Boys are itching to even the score.
And if the great opening doesn’t work out,
and the country falls into depression,
our leader will turn to a whole new obsession.
Of that there can be no damned doubt.

DC Marvels

Batman should have stopped this thing.
I’m sure he heard the rumors.
He could have put on his bat ring.
I’ve heard that cured some tumors.
And Superman, those x-ray eyes,
did they not see Wuhan?
His explanation, no surprise,
he’d just gone to the john.
The Flash could have been way out front
and stopped contamination.
But he was busy making cards
for his kids’ education.
While Spiderman was mending webs
and texting Mary Jane,
he could have protected New York.
I mean, it’s just insane.
And where was Hulk, the big green jock?
He’s spent some time in labs.
No, he was working ’round the clock
on building up his abs.
Seems Wonder Woman could have been
the world’s heroic nurse.
But now she’ll use her see-through plane
as temporary hearse.
If we can’t trust our super heroes
to defeat mere germs,
we’ve got to change some ones and zeroes,
rearrange their terms.

Stimulus Check

I need to check my stimuli. Nothing I’ve seen caught my eye,
His daily brief will get me seething, elevate my measured breathing.
How he rolls their questions under, facts and logic hacks asunder.
Cup of truth in seas of lies. How he rolls his white-rimmed eyes.
Stands as if he’s comatose, sneer to leer to just morose.
Questions when he has no answers, hands the mike off to his dancers.
They then tap around the stage, trying to subdue his rage.
Fake news is his battle cry, subtle as an old black eye.
Pointing like a brash dictator. You will get your answer later.
Doctor Fauci, under wraps, in his eyes, his theme song, “Taps.”
When he’s dressing down reporters, it’s like Psychos Without Borders.
Telling women they’re disgusting, while he’s salivating, lusting.
Presentations filled with lies. Master class in alibis.
He’s rewriting, day by day, what we see and others say.
As for deaths, he’ll up the score. Like to pass the Civil War.
He’ll claim he’s the president who saved the whole continent.
He’s found a new way to wealth. Betting on his country’s health.
Somewhere there’s a worldwide pool where he plays us for the fool.
Billions bet, the world asunder, on the death line, over/under.
Says that we will win this race. See us right now, in first place.

Play It Again, Sham

New York rats are now eating each other.

“Just the way I planned it,” claims the Prez.
Jared’s going to film it for a special.
It’ll be on pay-per-view, he says.
They’ll find every way to make a profit,
even in a country torn by plague.
Each designer face mask by Ivanka
costs as much as a Faberge egg.
Rudy got a deal on ventilators,
shipped up here from Mexico by bus.
Not a company many have heard of.
Translates into “Oxygen Is Us.”
Fauci’s been induced into a coma.
He was getting a bit out of hand.
He refused to bow to our great leader,
whose pure vision saved our sacred land.
Next comes the “Open Our Country Council,”
led by Kushners, “Nooch,” and Wilbur Ross.
It will spend much time in contemplation.
That’s if Ben Carson’s appointed boss.
In three weeks, a switch flips and we’re open.
Economy will boom, as good as new.
In four weeks, a rerun we weren’t hoping:
Welcome to Corona Virus II.

Wring Master

He loves to preside.
As for those who’ve died:
just leave them outside.
The tent is his show.
There won’t be no ponies,
but a lot of phonies,
and all his tight cronies,
the swamp as you know.
The first ring is lies,
where he death-defies,
just spinning in air
his spurious deeds.
Then in comes the lion,
an Elder of Zion,
with more facts to try on.
Contest if you dare.
In ring two, distortion,
defined as contortion,
you won’t get your portion,
but, brother, beware.
They’ll twist facts to pretzels.
Have you buying Edsels,
fill your head with dreadfuls,
until you don’t care.
In ring three the cheaters,
scam glam and tax beaters.
His kids are the greeters.
Consumer beware.
They’ll ask for your wallet.
Black magic, they’ll call it.
No way to forestall it.
All good, they will swear.
And when you leave the tent,
all raging and hell-bent,
you’ll think that the bucks spent
went to a just cause.
It’s called domination,
masked as jubilation.
You’re on the right station.
Now comes a brief pause.

What Have You Got To Lose?

NyQuil and Pop Rocks,
prescribed by some docs.
Stomach explosion.
Virus erosion.
Soaking in a nice hot tub,
filled to top with VapoRub,
could relieve some chest congestion.
Some have called this into question.
Eyedrops put inside the ears,
followed by some several beers,
might relieve anxiety,
without much propriety.
Ankle weights in pool’s deep end
can relieve that breathing trend.
Fauci says just stay inside,
take the sleep train for a ride.
Save the unproved remedies
for the maga wannabes.
Let them follow doctor T
down his path of infamy.
Any drug he recommends
will make money for his friends.
Do not listen to his raves!
You’ll all end up in mass graves.

Secret Shake

We sold our masks at markup way before this thing began.

And then we started companies to make them back again.
And now we’re selling cure-all pills and stories without oranges,
all backed up by stacked judges, FOX and Republicanosauruses.
Election’s all but cancelled and the roving gangs assemble.
It’s enough to make an old man cry and children tremble.
Disassembled premises are being hacked together,
thrown out like mere test balloons upon the public weather.
Somewhere there’s a castle below ground where they’ll be hiding,
watching as their public disavows all law abiding.
Guns and fools will be the rules, a game show they will tout.
A lot like fake Survivor but with lots more blood about.
Gun sales and the stock market have just begun their thriving.
Melt your pots and pans to shields if you’ve hope of surviving.
When this is through, the dead man stew is going to fill a lake.
Deep underground in their compound, they’ll do the secret shake.

Compound History

Consider all the family’s been through.

They’ve died in cars, in planes and now canoe.
Some call the family Kennedy
unlucky as a clan can be.
Joe Junior went to war, his plane went down.
JFK ambushed in Dallas town.
RFK, election day, shot at hotel in L.A.
Seemed like no end to their misery.
John John junior’s plane went in the sea.
Teddy lived through two bad crashes
before cancer made him ashes.
Later relatives have died, accidents and suicide.
There was even talk about a curse.
This latest boating death just makes it worse.
Their name rings out in history,
garlanded by mystery.
One could say the family car’s a hearse.

Knightly Update

I’m not a worrier, but he gets slurrier

each and every time he speaks.
I have suspicion a tiny furrier
lives inside the hollow ‘tween his septum and his cheeks.
The way he stands has been explained
as a man who wears back braces and Depends.
No empathy. The man is pained.
But he’s leaking shit, it seems, from every end.
Won’t wear a mask when he is asked.
No rule has ever kept him off his path.
He goes about the things he’s tasked.
Don’t even want to think about his bath.
The way he reads, like a fourth grader,
reading from his book report on scams,
makes handlers note, a little later,
up his Adderall a couple grams.
And one last thing, his shoe inserts,
there to make him think that he is tall,
another reason he stays inert,
’cause one false step, the Orange Man will fall.

Nay and Verily

Who elected Jared Kushner prince ?
It’s enough to make a fellow wince.
Who is he to spurt his t.v. garbage with a pout?
Tell us that he knows what COVID-19’s all about.
Ventilators are for feds, they’re not meant for the states.
Mincing like a schoolboy while his mind just masturbates.
All that flack on Hunter Biden’s profit in Ukraine
rolls right off the Kushners back, they’ve profit on the brain.
It’s revealed they have a stake in new virus web site.
Like all things in Trump’s family, this just does not look right.
A company called OSCAR, run by Jared’s younger brother,
is playing down its relativity, dodging for cover.
But there are voices screaming in the night on Instagram.
They say these guys are money deep in this pandemic scam.
It was a hoax to these vile folks until a profit loomed.
With Jared and Mike Pence in charge, it seems we might be doomed.
And if it’s true, there’ll be a special place for them in hell:
 a fiery island kingdom called the Trump Hades Hotel.

Lone Ranger Guilt

Lone Ranger wore a black face mask and had a native slave.

He had a horse named Silver and he never missed a shave.
But Clayton Moore was quite a bore and wore masks after quitting.
You’re not the Ranger any more, they said. He said, You’re shitting.
Tonto’d back to Silverheels, old Jay hung with Lyle Lovett.
He bought a boat and set afloat, said, Kemosabe, shove it.
Hoppy, Gene and Roy lived on, with all their sidekicks breeding.
Sometime during every show, you’d see the horses feeding.
John Reid’s ranger brothers were all killed by Butch’s gang.
In his last wish, said, Cavendish, I’ll live to see you hang.
Then Tonto came to save him. And it all goes well from there.
Twice in each show, he’d scream “Hi-Yo” and Silver reared in air.
Some movies came, but we were jaded by the black and white.
O.K., he’d made a brave his slave; but still it seemed all right.

No Sunshine

Almost a million jobs are gone.

I think it’s time to mow the lawn.
And where is my stimulus check?
I stayed inside, so what the heck?
I haven’t seen my friends in weeks.
Wind whistles through my hollow cheeks.
The raindrops are a welcome patter.
Nothing else now seems to matter.
Watching trees blow, wet and slick,
can make one forget the sick.
Images of death and dying
ought to keep one up nights, crying.
Never thought I’d see a plague.
Always thought Camus was vague.
Hoarding cans of food to eat.
Body bags are in the street.
There’s a navy ship at dock,
nurses working ’round the clock.
Bless the workers. They’re essential.
Fortitude is providential.
In their manmade cave inside,
all know someone who has died.
Every day the list expands,
writers, actors, men in bands.
As the world around us dithers,
just today we lost Bill Withers.
Life’s become a tragedy.
Tonight I’ll sing “Lean On Me.”

 

Bill of Wrongs

Barr is seeking power now to throw us all in jail.

No trial, no charge, no length of stay and forget about bail.
He’ll play the card when times are hard we must get tough on crime.
With court systems aborted, he’ll simply hand out time.
Suspect one is just a bum, he got caught stealing Millers.
Arrest his ass! His balls are brass! And throw him in with killers.
While suspect two got in a brew about freedom of speech.
Just lock him up ’til things calm down, and keep him out of reach.
We’ll call it ‘western justice,’ and fuck the D.O.J.
A hangin’ judge like Barr of fudge can just put folks away.
We’ll keep ’em there, he’ll, solemn, swear until things settle down.
Yeah, he’s the one with all the guns in COVID-19 town.
The streets will look like Deadwood when the crooks are all in hidin’.
Forget the rules, you be sick fools. You’ll not be saved by Biden.
Pelosi cannot say a word or her lockup is certain,
with sheriff Barr shining his star and Trump behind the curtain.
The t.v. shows an arrestee, asked “Where you gonna go?”
Instead of shouting “Disney World,” he’ll cry “Guantanamo.”

Word to the Wise Guys

It’s not cool this April fool to play tricks on outsiders.

Forget the jokes, it’s not a hoax, be good to care providers.
Help out with social distancing, perhaps wear scarves or masks.
And try to find a time and place not crowded for your tasks.
Spend time inside, don’t walk or ride, unless you need provisions.
Then make it fast, the time is past for pondering decisions.
Wash off your hands, don’t touch your face, don’t sneeze without a blocker.
Avoid the germs, obey the terms, it shouldn’t be a shocker.
There’ll come a time on down the line when folks can congregate.
But not today, just stay away, your soon could be too late.
This April first might be the worst in our health history.
So, can the pranks, stay in, give thanks, and read a mystery.

Emperor’s Nu Close

Death toll now tops nine-eleven.

Settin’ up spare cots in heaven.
Good thing Trump kept numbers down.
He should wear a golden crown.
Maybe a red cape velour,
on each arm a gorgeous whore.
On a pulpit made of gold.
He’s not fat. He’s not old.
Lies ! Lies ! Rolling in.
Fake news is the eighth damn sin.
Pay no heed to what he’ll shout.
Networks parse the whole truth out.
All his extras are on script,
reality stretched and chipped.
Only Fauci can be trusted.
Afraid someday he’ll be dusted,
Doctor Phil put in his place,
someone with a t.v. face.
Only pundits on the right
can be trusted in this fight.
Please don’t listen to the libs.
They will only tell you fibs.
His words are the only truth
in our isolation booth.
Trust your leader. Trust your king.
Only he can stop this thing.
And if we’re on the road to hell ,
he’ll ensure you that is swell.
Millions could die, I suppose.
No skin off his orange nose.

Another Thirty Days

Trump’s Easter ‘aspiration’ caused lots of consternation.
Now ‘good things’ should be happening by June.
We’ll see ‘the bottom of the hill,” for real or by the force of will.
A hundred thousand will have died too soon.
We now lead the whole world with our high number of infections,
overtaking Spain and the Chinese.
He’s got to clear this up before the upcoming elections,
or else he’ll have to hand Biden the keys.
Twenty-twenty hindsight will not be kind to the world,
the year when we were all sent to our room.
COVID-19 had us in its deadly fingers curled.
We had to read about the gloom and doom.
And as the market crashed and people lashed out at their leaders,
Trump said he played it as a perfect ten.
With his sub-standard team of con men, crooks and bottom-feeders,
he led us through the viral lion’s den.
For all his hoary pomp and and in-your-damned-face lying,
his base remains, amazingly, intact.
He’ll use this as a power point, how he curtailed the dying,
no need for numbers, history or fact.

Indiscretion Alley

“Sarkafo” Gus was not a social distancing believer.

He’d prowl the street quite indiscreet, a ciggie butt retriever.
He’d kiss a baby, kiss a dog, if any were around.
He’d pick up pennies, anything that’s shiny, off the ground.
Cops would yell, “Hey! Dumb as hell! Get yourself back inside!”
He’d make like he had a home and find some place to hide.
For a week he’d roamed the road with nothing much to show.
An iron pipe, a can of tripe, a button-shaped rainbow.
His dream was that he owned the world, the last man left behind.
The rain came hard. The wind blew cold. The season was not kind.
So, when the radio call came, a dead man in the gutter,
the police knew that it must be Gus, the roving hobo nutter.
Four men in plastic suits arrived and threw him in a truck.
No obit, funeral, even prayers. Seemed no one gave a fuck.