Warren Piece

Word just came that Liz quit the presidential biz

to join with mister money on the sideline.
Goodbye to wealth tax thrown into the deep unknown.
Goodbye to child care and student debt guideline.
Her numbers became dire though she threw Mike in the fire,
but the dream of White House woman is on hold.
Perhaps in four more years when the smoke from this one clears
her propositions won’t be shunned but recognized as bold.

Wednesday Weigh-In

Biden’s head is full of plugs.

Some say he needs memory drugs.
But he’s getting the black vote,
hanging on Obama’s coat.
Wait ’til Donald roasts his son,
puts him on a Hunter bun.
“Oh, Burisma!” he’ll erupt.
“So bad. So sad. So corrupt.”
Joe might call him a damned fool.
But to Trump, that’s just old school.
He’ll use all means underhanded
to make sure “Sleepy” is branded.
He’ll go after family ties,
hoping that Joe breaks and cries.
In a fight behind the gym,
Trump would cheat and probably win.
Razor wire on his belt buckles,
pepper spray and gold brass knuckles.
If they got to pulling hair,
they’d reveal that nothing’s there.
In a test of chicken eating,
Joe would take an awful beating.
Don will claim the country knows
Joe’s dressed up in Barack’s clothes.
Debate interest surely grows
if they might, indeed, trade blows.
Joe knows one place that he’s best:
in the big wind tunnel test.

Always In Love With Amy

Amy joined the race in a snowstorm.

Now she’s dropping out in a shit storm.
She joins a list of famous Minnesotans,
all of whose candidacy was verboten.
Harold Stassen, Gene McCarthy, Hubert Humphrey, all
lost but none were quite so bad as Walter Mondale’s fall.
Now she’ll throw support to Joe,
then go back into the snow,
root for Vikings, Timberwolves and Twins.
Back to Senate she will trod,
hoping against hope, by god,
that the person we have chosen wins.

March Madness

Here comes the month-long countdown to the final four.
Good bet that Kim will be there, Don and Vlad for sure.
But who will win that final spot’s a matter of opinion,
in the final bracket that determines world dominion.
Saudi’s bin Salman gets tough when all is on the line.
He’s even chopped up journalists, dissolved in alkaline.
Turkey’s Erdogan is probably best known for his purges.
He’s an anti-semite with great autocratic urges.
Asad of Syria gets many Putin torture tips.
He’s on the edge and uses chemicals instead of whips.
Venezuela’s Maduro is an extreme long shot,
thug behavior and corruption’s about all he’s got.
All will be revealed in the final game in June.
Winner gets to go to Mars, loser gets the moon.

Leaping Lizards

This whole year can take a flying leap.

It’s not even March and we’re neck-deep.
Neck deep in scandal, sham and scam,
a presidential flimflam man,
his appointees all unproven,
but, unto a man, behooven,
following his unhinged screed,
seeking power, moved by greed.
Perhaps we should use this extra day
meditating, praying him away.
In our country’s ashes burns an ember.
This cruel year could end in mid November.
We could celebrate a cabinet clearance,
if we can stop outside interference.
Then, again, if he is once more chosen,
all our great land’s assets will be frozen.
Things might get too horrible to mention.
Four more years is beyond comprehension.

Makeup Case

The paste on his face is mostly lead-based.

He wears it as a shield and as a mask.
But don’t try to touch it; he’ll have you erased.
You might as well not even ask.
The white ’round his eyes is like a disguise,
a negative of a raccoon.
It has the effect, what with his bloodshot eyes,
of making him look the buffoon.
If one were to come into contact with this,
seek immediate medical aid.
Some doctors have said even blowing a kiss
could cause a severe health downgrade.
It’s best in his presence to stand three feet back,
in case of a sneeze or a cough.
When his makeup flies, it pollutes the skies,
and you just can’t get that shit off.

Quiet News Day

There’s no talk in today’s news about stealing elections,

which, in turn, prompted this look into some news selections.
The stock market is reeling after COVID-19 drop,
while our great leader continues to spout his toilet sop.
“Must get better flushes, shower heads that clean my hair.”
And while the virus spreads, he doesn’t seem to really care.
America is safe now that he’s put Mike Pence in charge.
The iron white just might put those infected on a barge.
The weather’s coming ’round, this time of year the ocean’s pretty.
Or, better still, drop them off at some sanctuary city.
Another item says poor children pick our Starbucks beans.
Not bad ’til you find what “poor” in Guatemala means.
Tennis great Maria Sharapova has retired.
Former Egypt dictator Mubarak has expired.
Drag queens slam Republicans for banning their events.
This sounds like another job for “Mighty” Mikey Pence.
Baltimore’s ex-mayor gets three years in kids’ book scam.
Super Bowl halftime pole dance made prudish viewers scram.
China may use ducks to fend off present locust swarm.
Scientists explain why planes land sideways in wind storm.
And so, apparently, election cheating has subsided.
This wouldn’t be the first time that by news we were misguided.

The Emperor’s New Disclose

He's got NDA in his DNA.
It’s just the way he likes to play.
Take off your clothes, do not disclose,
sign on the dotted line.
I’m no bachelor, you’re no rose,
just drink a bit more wine.
I’m not saying you’re a slut,
just want to keep your damned mouth shut.
A nothing tryst, you get the gist,
one night and then forget.
I’ll add you to my growing list
of things I like to pet.
Speaking of pets, girl, you’re no bunny.
Your bod’s an eight, your face is funny.
You should be glad I had my way with you.
And if you say a word, be sure I’ll sue.
I’ve had my share of porn stars, strippers,
older women, some young nippers.
You’ll learn to wear your shame one day
just like a badge of honor, say.
Now you must leave at once, my dear,
before the wife returns.
The bruises that I left will fade,
as will those red rope burns.

Namaste There, Please

The country seems so quiet, what with Air Force One away.

A peacefulness has settled in. He’s been gone but a day.
So Bernie’s free to pad his lead, contenders on their trails.
It seems it’s what the nation needs, a break from their travails.
He’s on the other side of earth; he can’t cause too much trouble.
Relax, be calm, use time as balm. He’ll return, burst this bubble.
His stay in India is short. He’s there to sell them arms.
A giant crowd cheers long and loud, a tribute to his charms.
He mentions his friend Pakistan, a local source of tension.
He mixes good things up with bad, as if it’s his invention.
Perhaps he’ll fall in love with India, extend his stay.
More likely he’ll miss KFC and fly back home next day.
In any rate, the day looks great. The sun seems twice as bright.
He’s notably a better leader when he’s out of sight.

Sorry, Sari

Look out, India, ’cause here he comes !

They are building walls around their slums.
He won’t like the Taj Mahal
as much as his gambling hall.
“This one that you’ve got is pretty,
but not like Atlantic City.”
He won’t say he had to hock
his casino to Hard Rock.
Meanwhile, monkeys wait in Agra,
all pumped up on chimp viagra,
planning demonstrations when he’s there.
They just want to play in his nest hair.
Forces armed with their sling shots
will try to cool off their hots.
Melania had best dress down,
put away that rhesus gown.
Trump’s big speech at House of Cricket:
“India, here’s my boot…Lick it!”
He’ll make Prime Minister Modi
into his best roadie toady,
from his armored limo wave,
driving over Gandhi’s grave.
All the people of New Delhi
want to see the dude’s big belly.
If it works out, there may be new trading.
He might say their wall needs an upgrading.
And if a monkey comes too close, he’ll kick it.
That, my friends, could be a sticky wicket.

Front Porch Wisdom

Bernie’s coming on like a socialist gangbuster.

He’s like a mix of Larry David and old Mr. Bluster.
It’s good that kids, who watch their vids, have got behind this boomer.
He’ll smash the oligarchy and had harsh words for the Bloomer.
They say his early praise of Sandinistas might be slighted,
but this new world of social media is quite near sighted.
What have you done today, they’ll ask. I’ll conquer a dictator.
That’s cool, they’ll say, go have your way, we’ll check in with you later.
If he can tear down walls and has the balls to check this king,
the world will be a Bernie paradise and kids will sing:
“O, white-haired one, here comes the sun, the world’s back on its axis.”
Here come free school and health care, cool, paid for by rich men’s taxes.
And if VP is Warren, she can carry on his torch.
A brand new generation can toast them from their front porch.

King of Fraud

The King of Fraud thinks he is god.

No law or rule can touch him.
Amazing how the lurching clod
persuades his mass to clutch him.
His wispy wig and paint-on tan
are awkward and appalling.
He does his thinking on the can
where his great bulk is sprawling.
He bleeds his friends, destroys his foes,
and lies to every side.
The last time that he touched his toes,
was back with his first bride.
He squandered millions on bad deals,
black-listed by most banks.
But Russian mobsters heard his squeals,
and now he owes them thanks.
We’ll be paying off his loans
for several generations,
scraping meat off mercy’s bones
for his gross machinations.
King of Fraud, your throne is gone,
been sold off for hush money.
To think they thought you were god
is sad but somewhat funny.
You’ll spend your old age in a cell
outside a prison tower.
We hope each minute there is hell.
And watch out in the shower.

Nicking a Name

Seeing news, I note he just gave “Parasite” a kick.

Think he wanted that title for his own bio-pic.
I’m sure we can probably find a better one than that,
a monster name like “Hairwolf” or maybe “Frankenfat.”
A song title, perhaps, like Bowie’s “Man Who Sold the World,”
or something native like “White Scalp with Nylon on it Swirled.”
Maybe one that’s lots more fun like “Toilet Paper Trailer.”
Or, “If It Weren’t For Bone Spurs I Would Likely Be A Sailor.”
How ’bout ” Squandered All the Billions My Rich Daddy Gave Me,”
or the catty “I will do Bill Barr if he will Save Me.”
I like “Mail Order Bride Magnet,” think it’s got a ring.
Then there’s “Get Out of Jail Free, As Long as You Don’t Sing.”
“Nero Two” does not quite do, but “Caligula” might,
though it translates “Little Boots,”  “Tiny Hands” is more right.
Perhaps “The Furor” or “The Sniffer” sound a bit more gangster.
Or aim for anti-Mister Rogers, “Kids In Cages Prankster.”
Of course, he might go biblical and choose “The Chosen One.”
Or lean a bit toward mystery, like “Times Square, With a Gun.”
Branding him is like a swim, can go in all directions.
Blatantly, what we don’t want is “I Stole Two Elections.”

D.C. Comics

Roger Stone just got his sentence. Forty months for lying.

He’ll be out before too long, though, for not testifying.
He’s the Joker deep inside the president’s dark cave.
Barr’s the Riddler, Rudy is the Penguin and head knave.
Ivanka is Catwoman and her husband’s Mister Freeze.
The two sons are the Trigger Twins, kill anything they please.
If Bernie could be Batman, and Liz or Pete his Robin,
perhaps they could clear out that cave, and overthrow King Gobbin.
If not, our Gotham as we know it could well cease to be.
Left with just a spotlight searching for democracy.

Garden of the Fini Contendees

Some nutcase in Nevada’s gluing MAGA hats on pigeons.

Next year this might be basis for many new religions.
Please, Bernie, Liz, Pete, Amy, Joe, agree on a consensus.
Or people caught not wearing hats might be encaged by fences.
Get the glue and whips out, too, dissenters locked in stocks.
While the barker tweets their shame from inside his gold box.
They had their chance to do his dance and entertain his court.
Now they will be apprentices in his new deadly sport.
Someone who bleeds, gets on his knees, and begs might get a pardon.
More likely still, he’ll be roadkill beneath the White House garden.

Nevada Test Site

Debate night tonight, Bloomberg on the spot.

He thinks he can buy elections, Bernie says, “‘Fraid not.”
Klobuchar and Buttigieg shall battle for the middle.
Biden, looking sleepy, will play “Hey Joe” on the fiddle.
Liz will be the liberal schoolmarm, but she’s looking thin.
All six who are in the mix assure us they can win.
Bernie’s stock is on the rise, he’s built a current lead,
his healthcare and school paid for all by one percenters’ greed.
Biden simply wants to keep his foot out of his mouth,
beat the odds in Vegas and perhaps he’ll win down south.
Mayor Pete thinks on his feet, but he’s just so damned white.
Klobuchar proved she can spar. She’ll duke it out tonight.
Warren’s just not scorin’ lately, in a spat with Sanders.
Bloomberg’s only hope might be toss money to bystanders.
So, place your bets, smoke cigarettes, put everything on red.
The winner in Las Vegas might just head down south ahead.

Commutation Proclamation

It looks like this is pardon day for crooks across the USA.

Racketeers and junk bond dealers now can make their getaway.
All Trump’s friends convicted of fraud, bribery, corruption,
get out of jail free now, sorry for the interruption.
Michael Milken, Bernard Kerik and Eddie DeBartolo,
free to go back to their gang or resume bilking solo.
Rod Blagojevich tried to sell Obama’s seat.
Next time he commits a crime will be much more discrete.
Lifestyle mogul Martha Stewart might be next one pardoned.
She hopes it happens soon before his arteries have hardened.

Occupy in the Sky

News reports a homeless army’s just taken Trump Tower

after a street fight with police that took about an hour.
Crews are at the scene and talking to the occupiers.
There’s a rumor going ’round they’ve even started fires.
One man told reporters, “Yesterday my life just stinks,
but now I’m drinking sweet champagne and pissing in gold sinks.”
“How strange for some,” said John Q. Bum, “to sleep in giant beds,
when most of us were lucky to have cardboard o’er our heads.”
In the sealed-off lobby, there’s a party going down
with folks from every fleabag hacienda in this town.
What fun it is to watch some families, even little nippers,
waving out from windows wearing fluffy robes and slippers.
Police say that it won’t last long, they’ll overtake these vandals.
Meanwhile, goodbye souvenirs, like golden toilet handles.
In a statement just released called “Nothing left to lose,”
those inside rejoice at having clean sheets and good booze.
They know that this cannot last and must end with detention.
“But, at least we’ll have a roof and maybe draw attention.”
“Rich people don’t help us out and laugh at us in passing;
it’s about time we stand up and take a turn at gassing.”
Now a flag’s been set up to wave on the penthouse roof:
“One percent is over soon and let this be the proof !”

Day of the Red

Keeping to the spirit of this year’s President’s Day,

I’ll spend two dozen hours with nothing good to say.
I’ll start with his constant attack on our endangered species,
and segue to his lying mouth, which, open, smells like feces.
Next I’ll mention how he mocked a disabled reporter,
how, when he reads his speeches, he turns into a rip snorter,
how he spouts obscene to rally his illiterati,
walks the mobster walk in imitation of John Gotti,
lies so much there’s danger truth might become obsolete,
balances his shifty bulk with tiny hands and feet.
I’ll mock the evil orange one from midnight until dawn.
I’ll take time out for coffee, and then continue on.
There’s no dearth of nasty things to say about this man.
Grab a soapbox, jump right in, protest him while you can.
Next year, President’s Day might be met with utter silence.
Might well be his criticizers will be met with violence,
swept involuntarily to compounds with high walls.
It all ends with a whimper when democracy falls.

Senior Citizen One

If he wins, he’ll turn the White House to a nursing home.

First state of the nation with a walker.
Before each appearance, activate the Depends Drone.
A nurse will follow him just like a stalker.
Ramps will replace all the stairs and corners be filed down.
Pillow-covered floors in case he falls.
Ambulance turned limo will now take him around town.
Hearing aides will answer all his calls.
In the oval office, he can sit and meditate,
to contemplate his coming term’s adventures.
His staff will insure there’s only soft things on his plate.
Right by the button, there will sit his dentures.
Metamucil will become official White House fare
and be served at Presidential dinner.
In his words, youth has been served and now it’s only fair,
a really old, old man should be the winner.