Delusions of Grandeur

Executive privilege is like a cone of silence.

Under it one can do crimes that most folks would appall.
Everything including robbery, fraud and great violence,
must be allowed without question. Go have a ball.
Some say this fact sounds like dictator rule;
the wronged should be allowed position.
But those who have learned from executive school
say, sorry, that’s not our decision.
Our leaders must remain unquestioned,
the toadies and roadies explain.
To even reveal a suggestion
could derail the whole ruling chain.
We could have elected Al “Scarface” Capone
and no one could mention his past.
With murder and mayhem safe under his cone,
he literally could have a blast.
Whatever it says in our old constitution,
it doesn’t pertain to today.
There is no way out of a bad situation
if criminals have their own way.

Say, kids, what time is it ?

T’was way back in the days of Howdy Doody

I heard a jumpin’ song called “Tutti Frutti.”
The radio was suddenly alive
with more than just the standard pap and jive.
I gave up Gene and Roy
to hear that Elvis boy.
There came a time in life I call ‘take five.’
On Sun, I heard the Killer.
So, goodbye to Glenn Miller.
Farewell to Lassie and good Rin Tin Tin.
That rock n’ roll got underneath my skin.
Bolstered by the tunes these new guys sang,
I outgrew the Mickey Mouse Club gang.
When I gave up Lucy for “Lucille”
I became a teenager for real.
Soon I’d be down on my knees,
praying to the Everlys.
Thereupon came Cash and Berry,
folk with Peter, Paul and Mary.
Then a new world opened that was thrillin.’
It was called the sixties with Bob Dylan.
Teenage years becoming skittish,
suddenly there came the British.
Beatle world became its own sensation.
I was deeply caught up in that nation.
Blues and bluegrass came around.
Everywhere was found new sound.
I realized my childhood was a relic
when I entered into psychedelic.
Yet somewhere way back there in my brain
lingered Howdy Doody’s old refrain.
Seems it doesn’t matter just how old you finally grow,
because “Howdy Doody’s here: it’s time to start the show.”

New Threads

Every hair shirt starts with a new thread,

blanket of discomfort, waist to head.
Those who don’t believe in abnegation
walk through this world as if on vacation.
Those who think the flesh not really weak
haven’t learned to turn the other cheek.
In the olde days, witches suffered lashes.
That’s what happens when the spirit crashes.
Take them to the stocks, put them up on blocks,
pummel them with rocks ’til evil dashes.
Each religion has to have a starter.
Often it comes disguised as a martyr,
as if dying for our sins, how most often this begins,
somehow makes their piety much smarter.
Take the heathen to the whipping post,
for his lack of God’s what hurts him most.
If his dying breath welcomes healing death,
then he’s found religion, some can boast.

The Mortal Shell

News has come of Mister Peanut’s death

in a crash of Planter’s Nut Mobile.
So I sit here, sobbing, with peanuts on my breath.
They said Mister was behind the wheel.
Peanuts should not be allowed to drive.
Their muscles are not equipped for that.
Were he riding, he’d be still alive.
Wearing his black monocle and hat.
This brings Humpty Dumpty’s death to mind.
Was he pushed? The question seems to beg.
Was this act conspiracy against all peanutkind?
And what came first, the peanut or the egg?

Make Assholes Graphic Again

There is now a graphic novel of Mueller’s report,

for those who are fond of cartoons and of books real short.
See the funny Russian agents in Trump’s oval room.
He tells them a bunch of secrets, words flash, “Bang! Whap! Zoom!”
See the crimes and misdemeanors dressed in funny suits.
See his pal Vlad Putin walk all over him with boots.
See him chase James Comey like Roadrunner off a cliff.
There’s a scratch-and-sniff Jeff Sessions, if you want a whiff.
In the pop-up section, there’s a large Trump Moscow Tower.
Coloring the co-conspirators might take an hour.
Cut-out Jared and Ivanka come with suits and dresses.
Simulated Melania lets you comb her tresses.
And because this graphic novel wants to tell it all,
it arrives pre-packaged in a mini border wall.
There is one brief warning, though, the end might cause you rage:
images of Mueller comatose on the last page.

Zeus the Squirrel

I am the Rodent of Thor !

I have transported oak,
and this is no joke,
I want to be recognized more.
A gravestone motif
with a squirrel smoking kif
would be a phenomenal score.
I transport acorns day and night,
bury them all out of site.
So, some later grow to trees.
So, that is my business, please.
Oaks declared national tree.
There’s a hero, and it’s me.
I don’t need no medal, though.
Just a bag of nuts to go.

Penultimatum

Tomorrow we are going to impeach.

It’s been three years but now it is in reach.
Of course the fix is in.
Truth takes it on the chin.
But one must hope there’s lessons it will teach.
Like don’t elect a crook for president.
You saw his campaign, how it was hell bent.
He tossed money to the rich,
treated poor folks like his bitch.
He’s done not one good thing in time he’s spent.
He’s demeaned women, often for a laugh.
He looked to the swamp to fill his staff.
His lies became a running joke.
He dropped one every time he spoke.
And he would never admit to a gaffe.
He’s cuddled up to dictators worldwide.
He even claims that Putin’s on his side.
And what of Kim Jong-un,
the North Korean goon,
who’s taken his good friend for one wild ride.
He’s pulled us to the brink of a world war,
and says that’s okay, what are missiles for?
Our allies he has dumped,
and now he’s super pumped,
even though impeachment’s at the door.
He knows Republicans have got his back.
The Senate has turned to his own love shack.
They haven’t got the balls
to dis him in their halls.
And so he will continue his attack.
To liberty we’ll have to bid farewell
if we allow four more years of this hell.
He’ll decimate our history.
The truth will be a mystery.
This once great land will be an empty shell.
One day folks will reflect with jaws dropped,
wondering why this crackpot wasn’t stopped.
We must be behooved
that he be removed.
Otherwise our timeline could be cropped.

Cartoon Rule

Our great Space Force soon will visit Pluto.

And Spinach Navy will take care of Bluto.
Goofy’s our new Defense Secretary.
New Supreme Court: Curly, Moe and Larry.
Ghost Rider heads the Department of Arson.
Head of Sleep remains our own Ben Carson.
Melania, of course, is now The Queen.
And King of Comedy is Mister Bean.
While Rudy G. will rule the inner city,
the suburbs are in charge of Walter Mitty.
Wile E. Coyote will patrol the border,
with help from Zorro, Czar of Law and Order.
Maleficent will control immigration.
Chris Christie heads Department of Vacation.
Ivanka will remain Goddess of Lust.
Her name will replace God’s as whom we trust.
And Porky Pig, as head of Education,
will move our country toward a stutter nation.
Donald Duck will become Aide De Camp.
New State Department: Lady and the Tramp.
Pinocchio as Minister of Truth
will exonerate poor John Wilkes Booth.
And, last but not least, will be Daffy Duck,
who becomes the Minister of Do Not Give a Fuck.
All this ruled by Tiny Orange Hand.
God protect our animated land.

Sucksession

Jimmy Carter, tricked by Ronnie

(who passed down his plays to Donnie)
was a moral president,
so much he got bruised and bent.
GOP pranks were the habit.
They once chased him with a rabbit.
Then there came his biggest bust,
Playboy got him talking lust.
Bashers knocked his piety.
Why can’t hostages go free?
He got hijacked by Iran,
all a part of Reagan’s plan.
After Ron there came George Bush,
one term, Clinton kicked his tush.
Then came junior W,
did all the harm he could do.
Hid when twin towers came down,
started war, a Texas clown.
Thankfully, we got Obama,
but now have this Trumpish drama,
crimes much worse than Tricky Dick,
making half the country sick.
Sadly, though, the other half
finds him ballsy, makes ’em laugh.
Strutting like a magistrate,
trying to make himself more great.
Now the great election looms,
sealing our collective dooms.
If it’s Dems, we shall rejoice.
If it’s not, we’ll lose free choice.
Get out to the polls and vote.
Russia’s gonna rock the boat.
Our good country’s on the brink.
It is time to swim or sink.

News of the Day 1/18/20

In Vegas birds wear cowboy hats.

Or so it says in chat room chats.
A Wiggles singer collapsed on stage.
Rejecting royalty’s all the rage.
Airplane fuel’s been dumped on schools.
Neo-nazis act like fools.
Philippine volcano blew.
Evidence shows Nunez knew.
Flash floods mock the Aussie fires.
Yang gives money, has no buyers.
Rapper Pop Smoke stole a Royce.
Simpsons’ Apu needs new voice.
Trump law team are t.v. stars.
Parnas haunted hotel bars.
Women marchers on the ground.
‘Portrait of a Lady’ found.
If the news seems off the hook,
wait until you read the book.

Gimme a Schiff !

I is for the idiot in office.

M is for the many he has hurt.
P is for the presidency, blemished.
E is for the epithets he’ll blurt.
A is for his acolytes, those cowards.
C is for the cooch he likes to grab.
H is for the heavy heap of healing
we’ll all need when we peel off the scab.
Put them all together they spell “high crimes,”
reasons why the senate must impeach.
It’s a tragic ending for a man who was unbending,
trying to achieve what’s out of reach.

Denomination

Who scrubbed Tubman off the twenty?
Who told fibs and lies aplenty?
Killing generals with his rockets,
lining his whole family’s pockets,
turning D.C. to a swamp,
no bad deed he will not comp,
with the enemy conspired,
even Uncle Sam got fired,
wound up in impeachment’s hall
before he could kill us all,
his whole party hypnotized,
tyranny’s been realized,
before next election comes,
he’ll be beating on war drums,
making the whole country squirm.
Pray we can survive his term.
And now that he’s packed the court,
hope that we can still abort.
Screaming baby still alive.
That’s what we call Forty Five.

Withering Heights

There was an orange man upon the moor

who walked as if his feet were very sore.
He trampled on the gorse,
a stumbling ox off course.
His makeup made him seem somewhat the whore.
I’m looking for my golf course he did shout,
or otherwise I would not be about.
They took away my job,
the burnished hulk did sob.
And I seem to have a bit of gout.
The golf course here had lately gone to seed.
Without his business trips there was no need.
So he just wandered lost,
complaining of the cost.
A fool untethered’s twice the fool, indeed.
Alas, he stooped and came up with a ball,
which, much like his own, was white and small.
Now I must find a hole,
he screamed to no seen soul,
and, after that, I’m going to build a wall!

Potty Mouth (explicit)

“The president’s a potty mouth,” a youngster claimed sincerely.

“He says words that would have me in time out.”
And so his mother answered him, because she loved him dearly,
“It’s not just words, it’s what they are about.”
She said he’d put some children just as young as him in cages
and separated parents far away.
He asked her, “What the hell is this, the fucking middle ages?”
She laughed her ass off for that whole damned day.

All Over This Spam

Amongst my spam, instructions, on making old knives sharp.

Another touts that I’ll have doubts if I don’t join in AARP.
One says I’ll have a great surprise if I will only exercise.
Another has glass lenses that are daily crying for my eyes.
There’s many tell me how to vote and even how to pray.
And several hock the coffins that I’ll need on judgement day.
Makeup, break up, tips on cooking,
all things for which I’m not looking,
influences my take on each spammer.
All day I sing, “If I Had a Hammer.”

Resolution

Hey, let’s start the next decade
with a little instant war,
bomb a general’s motorcade,
then ask why Iran’s so sore.
Wag the dog and make excuses.
Blame the general’s reputation.
Watch the horror it unlooses,
retribution for our nation.
Deployed forces now in danger,
bomber squadrons flying east,
presidential power ranger
perhaps has unleashed the beast.
Any war will be distraction
from his public trial, of course,
super heroes called to action,
maybe even great space force.
Who’ll remember this impeachment
in the midst of World War Three?
That will be his last achievement,
erasing all history.

MMXX

Twenty twenty could be our last time
through the rotation;
“E Pluribus Whatever Crimes,”
the motto of the nation.
To think back how we stole this land
and built it up to rockets.
Our time is but a one-night stand,
small change in cosmos pockets.
And now we’re down to oligarchs
and monoliths in power.
The atmosphere is full of sparks
in gasoline’s last hour.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Boxing Day

We celebrated Boxing Day
in a fairly normal way.
Put on gloves, got in the ring,
danced a bit, began to swing.
After landing several jabs,
we both took a couple tabs.
Next thing you know, we’re inside
boxes, boxes, tall and wide.
Boxes, boxes, everywhere,
like an Amazon nightmare.
Box of turtles, box of frogs,
ancient box of Lincoln logs.
In some boxes made of pine
some old relatives recline.
In a box unopened yet,
came a scream, “Nyet, nyet !”
Had to see what made that noise.
It was filled with Putin toys.
But we deemed these dolls no fun,
mailed them back to Washington.
Of course we’d see them in a while,
playing at the Senate trial.
It was just a mailing glitch.
They were meant for Moscow Mitch.

Christmas Under the Influence

 

Christmas day is sneaking up.

Santa’s got his egg nog cup.
Mrs. S says with a sigh,
“You might be too drunk to fly.”
Jolly Santa says, “Ho, Ho.”
He’s been laying in the snow.
‘Making angels,’ he’ll relate.
But he just can’t stay up straight.
All these years of reindeer gas,
in his cockpit near their ass,
makes him wary of the sky.
Now he is too drunk to fly.
All the elves can’t get him sober.
Old St. Nick keeps falling over.
He’s had way too much libation
for chimney negotiation.
They’re afraid too much wassail
just might wind him up in jail.
There are rules up in the sky.
He could get an FUI.
Looking at his reindeer crew,
Blitzen might be loaded, too.
It looks like the holidays
might be lost in drunken haze.
‘Til a little elf named Fern
shows up with a coffee urn.
“We’ll just fill him with caffeine
until his whole system’s clean.”
In twelve hours, clear of eye,
Santa will be set to fly.
Rudolph plants a mental seed:
“Next year we should get him weed.”

Goodnight Democracy

The week ebbs out in sunsets
from sea to plastic sea.
The government is broken.
Goodnight democracy.
Tomorrow there’ll be riots
and looted goods for free.
Who knows what side the police are on?
Goodnight democracy.
Elections have been rendered null
by mass duplicity.
The voters are now in the street.
Goodnight democracy.
There’s broken glass and smoking grass
from Maine to Kankakee.
The rich can cover their own ass.
The poor more likely flee.
Quite soon they’ll seal the borders,
bring in artillery.
Who’ll give or obey orders?
Goodnight democracy.
There hasn’t been a scene like this
since Boston dumped its tea.
It’s either mountain or abyss.
Goodnight democracy.