He’s No Nixon

Misuse of his power we could chronicle an hour.
Obstruction is the juice that’s in his veins.
In the senate, trial becomes shit shower,
with his pal Moscow Mitch at the reins.
O how Lindsey will spout Graham crackers,
and Jim Jordan cross the Rhine with whine.
The hoax cry will rise from all his backers
’bout that phone call, perfect, not just fine.
In the end the Dems will be rejected,
subjected to lies and ‘facts’ absurd.
Grounds and reason will both be neglected.
Vindicated shouts of Orange Turd.
In the oval office he’ll be seething,
fascist lying smile upon his lips.
Hatred fills the air with just his breathing.
Back to work on the apocalypse.

No Silent Night

In the air there’s pre-impeachment smell.

Children play with Nadler and Schiff toys.
Orange tweets as if one foot in hell,
scolding all the donkey girls and boys.
He is screaming, “I’ll get you, my pretties!
I hate scum no matter what the age is.”
He’ll now invade sanctuary cities,
throwing leftist sugarplums in cages.
There will be no presents for the needy.
Only one percenters hear his sleigh.
“Christmas time is only for the greedy.
And, if you don’t like it, go away!”
He made just one new year’s resolution,
give each Democrat a lump of coal.
Moscow Mitch will lead a revolution,
stripping this whole country of its soul.
In his kingdom, we are merely elves,
working in the markets of the rich.
Soon there’ll be spy cams on all the shelves.
Fascist Holidays. Hey, life’s a bitch.

Kid Pro Quo

Ukraine on the brain
causes Democratic pain.
Ambassador smeared by Rudy
was called home, relieved of duty.
Three amigos were inserted,
funds for weapons then diverted.
If they do a favor, though,
U.S. will release the dough.
Just get dirt on Biden’s son.
Stop Joe’s presidential run.
Take the blame off Russia’s tricks
in the last election fix.
Prez Zelenskiy, be a honey.
Quid pro quo will get your money.

Gold Coast

Drumpie’s moved to Florida,
there’s fewer taxes there.
He leaves his tower in New York
and much synthetic hair.
He’ll blend in with the old folks
in a state of milk and honey.
And he will find a thousand ways
to rid them of their money.
He’ll wear his mirrored glasses,
ogle women on the beach,
a state of tits and asses
where impeachment’s out of reach.
He’ll claim that Mar-a-Lago
is the greatest place on earth.
And no one there will dare to care
about what he is worth.
Away down south he’ll get far from
the liberals and haters.
And, best of all, his shotgun sons
can go hunt alligators.

The Fetal Beatle

My creeping paranoia may become an ailment soon.

I’ll be sentenced to a Bates Motel-like cell of doom.
Everything, I’ve realized, has been a total sham,
organized, through history, by Uncle Sam I Am.
I danced through school the total fool and fell into the war.
I didn’t know a thing of life or what its rules were for.
I soon found out that in was out and up was often down.
The stealer was the healer. The hero was the clown.
I took to shelter, helter skelter, life in dreams my den.
Some years ago I was at peace. I can’t remember when.

Bad Wish Genie

It’s all untethered.
His hair is feathered.
His cheeks are golden,
his eyes beholden,
his fingers teeny,
just like his weenie.
He’s your very worst nightmare,
The Three Bad Wishes Genie.
In his teeth are diamond nuggets.
Up his nose are smoke and coal.
He pees processed oil in buckets
Demolition is The Goal.
He’ll dig deep down to hell unknown
to make the very core his own.
He thinks he is the judgement day.
How can we not stand in the way?

Orange Magic

He’s the Houdini of politics,

makes clean breaks from his dirty tricks.
He even makes his words just disappear.
He’s emptied out his cabinet,
yet some will reappear and bet
that he can get them through another year.
“Orange Magic,”
his new slogan should read,
a slight-of-hand commander
whose only love is greed.
He escaped from the Mueller cage
and quelled the pussy furor.
He’s either nuts or in a rage.
He might turn to a fuhrer.
Orange Magic
is often painted red.
He makes his mitts gigantic,
but only in his head.
Our one last hope is he’s exposed
as nothing but a trickster.
And who could ever have supposed
he’d be worse than the Dickster?
Orange Magic
cloaks evil with his habit.
Let’s all hope that Warren
can turn him into a rabbit.

Perhaps titled “Love Extortion” or “Ad Hock”

I love you more than stomach trouble,

Double Bubble or the Hubble.

More than guacamole dip, sit and sip, chocolate chip.

Even more than ham and eggs, cribbage pegs, chicken legs.

Let it be said I love you

more than pools of Mountain Dew.

More than brand new pairs of sneakers

or plush toys with inside squeakers.

More than baseball, more than dice, more than Grey Goose over ice.

Even more than rock on vinyl, I love you and that is final.

Valentines, like Groundhog Day, one more hitch to grab your pay.

Show your love by spending loot. Throw it down the honey shoot.

Everybody kiss and hug. Give her diamonds, you big lug.

Show your heart is in your wallet. Love extortion’s what I call it.

Cards and candy, hearts and flowers, nods to advertising’s powers.

////this could be reconfigured or a refrain extracted? Perhaps titled “Love Extortion” or “Ad Hock”//////////

Love’s extortion is the potion of the day

“Dont Need a Weatherman”

To say he is slow on the uptake
might actually be too kind.
To hint he is fast on the downdraft,
he’d be the first to remind.
The wind blows IOU’s around him.
The clouds are his own Bergman short.
He once had to stamp out a geyser
and force a typhoon to abort. 
He made many mountains from molehills
and taught of the dread windmill whine.
His only expertise was red bills
and whether the ducks were in line.
No shadow can cover his glower.
His menace is seen in his wave.
Some fools think that they are in power,
when, really, they’ve been made a slave.

Red Sauce

Now Russia owns Kentucky.

The czar is getting plucky.

They’ve got Mitch by the balls.
He’s taking all their calls.
It’s not our finest hour.
They likely own Trump Tower.
When they take over Mickey D’s,
they’ll know they have us on our knees.

Failing Hearing

Mueller. Could he be duller?
He’s like a decaf coffee with a day old cruller.
He said he could not answer questions ’bout two hundred times.
How can that be so when Drump’s so up-front with his crimes?
Admitting Russia owns us now did not dispel our fears.
He looked like a guy who hasn’t smiled in thirty years.
Just the facts amongst redacts and, really, little more.
Looking like a grandfather whose hemorrhoids are sore.
No recourse for leaders who are in foreign employ?
We expected Superman but got Grandpa McCoy.

Hollowed Groundswell

O hear tell of one groundswell that swept the USA.

The leader of the free world told non-whites to go away.
He doesn’t like their criticism or their funny dress.
Go back to your own country, he said, fix that bloody mess.
Four women who were singled out deplored his racist state.
I’m no racist, he replied; my heart’s just filled with hate.
His supporters backed him up, insisted he was right.
Send them back, they shouted. Almost all of them were white.
And so John Birch and KKK now find that they are back in play.
And Neo-Nazis freely stockpile arms.
Soon to come, abortion bans, conversion if you’re gay.
The free world leader cares not who he harms.

Fade To Grave

There would be a choice on whom to save:
those who walk upright outside the cave,
or those who worship fire from within.
Take a look to see who is your kin.
From afar explosions look like smoke.
But, up close, appear more as God’s joke.
Blood and blast meld into paint:
those who were and now who ain’t.
Rivers run and lands are farmed.
Some not dead are only harmed.
Genes and schemes are passed on down.
Here’s a village. There’s a town.
Families, alas, survive.
May be yours, if you’re alive.
These eternal mysteries
come to us as histories.
Those who had successful plans
band together, then, as clans.
Bloodlines are a map of time,
shaped by reason, steeped in rhyme.
Sometimes fate can be quite cruel.
That is why it’s called old school.
Paintings, tales and songs survive.
Nothing else can stay alive.
Those who seek to trace the past
are but watchmen on the mast.
Waves of people hit the shore.
Some are players, some keep score.
All wind up as dust or bones.
Check that on your telephones.

Revolution #45

One if by land and two if by sea,
Paul Revere said, and, if by air, three.
Ethan Allen helped to shut the airports down.
His Green Mountain boys covered the copters on the ground.
When Patrick Henry phrased his praise of liberty,
it was a coded message to the boys in Seal Team 3.
And by some great coincidence, the men at Valley Forge
all had the last name Washington or else the first name George.

Red Glare

There is no law.

But tanks are in the street.
The man of straw
Will stand at Lincoln’s feet.
While overhead
the bombers strafe the sky.
The heartless one
will tell lie after lie.
The troops parade
like in Red Square.
The point well made.
We’re almost there.
This holiday
could be our last.
Our U.S.A.
is fading fast.

Peace and Quiet

How can one photograph peace and quiet?

Is it just a scene without a riot?
Does tweeting of the birds count the same as human words?
And where put hunting season’s gunshots diet?
Because part of the silence includes natural violence,
some say peace can’t be found. But I don’t buy it.

The News Is In a Fix (6/26)

A waitress in Chicago spit on Eric.
Flamingo killer struck dead by a truck.
The chief of protocol threatened his workers with a whip.
The news is weird today. Seems we’re in luck.
Some twenty Dems are ready to debate insanity.
And Cardi B will fight her strip club charge.
Kim Jong Un is leading POTUS by his vanity.
While killer Saudi prince still’s living large.
Our captives at the border cannot get a bar of soap.
And cell phones create horn-like bumps on skulls.
Roy Moore is coming back, which must give pedophiles some hope.
What say we spit on Eric during lulls.

Snoop Web

I just found Google Chrome was spying on my home.

It said that I should probably change my shirt.
Not only did its sentiment upset them,
they said it needed washing for the dirt.
The shirt said “Keep your nose out of my business.”
I’m tired of their snooping and their lies.
They’re past the line where they can plead forgiveness.
Their cookie bombs taste bitterly of spies.
I don’t need Chrome suggestions for my wardrobe.
I don’t want ad blurbs ‘tailored’ to my taste.
I’ll switch to a new browser if one more probe
seems to lay my privacy to waste.
So, goodbye Google Chrome, hello Mozilla.
Your Foxfire does not seem quite so covert.
Surveillance software’s somewhat like Godzilla.
Beneath its plodding steps, someone gets hurt.

Art Kills

He drove a pencil through the webbing of his palm.
I needed lead, he said, and then applied a balm.
He poured a morning drink, something he called a buffer.
He had a firm belief an artist has to suffer.
His every action aimed at feeling precious pain.
He walked for hours in the night beneath the rain.
He carved designs upon his arms with razor blades,
and painted pictures on his chest in blood cascades.
He took to chasing pills with whiskey as a perk.
He called it research; it was all part of his work.
One day he met a guy he knew and bought a gun.
He put a bullet in the cylinder for fun.
Each morn he’d spin that thing and point it at his head.
He’d pull the trigger and then figure if he’s dead.
One day no answer came and that was when he knew.
He’d blown his chance, he’d left the dance.
His writing days were through.

Big Red Tie

What do you say to your father, Eric and Don?

That all depends if the tape recorder’s on.
If it’s rolling, then it’s, Happy Father’s Day!
If it’s not, then, What’d Putin send your way?
We’re both hoping it’s a big red tie.
Or a manual on how to lie.
Maybe secret codes? Who knows what that bodes?
Maybe he’ll give Star Force half the sky.
He said for your next inauguration
he’ll send you that tape of urination.
With that safe from every fake news station,
you can take a four-year-long vacation.
Move the white house down to Mar a Lago.
where our brothers Brutus and Iago
can finally leave their cage.
They’ve almost come of age.
We’ll form a new Capone gang like Chicago.
And then, at last, you can date your own daughter.
In Florida, there’s weird things in the water.
If Vlad just plays his cards,
you two can become pards:
the Red and Orange Travel Troop of Slaughter!
Happy Father’s Day, Daddy.