This is a parody of Subterranean Homesick Blues by Bob Dylan. I offer him my apologies and my reverence. He has always been my music hero.
Here is the text:
Trumpterranean Homesick Blues
(with no mention of Epstein, the island or the files.
Donnie’s in the basement, lyin’ ‘bout Sleepy Joe.
I’m on the pavement, munching on a Sloppy Joe.
The man in a flak jack, no badge, facemask,
Says he’s got a hip flask, wants to spray my gas mask.
Look out kid, it’s not about your skin.
God knows why but you’re bein’ brown again.
Better duck into the library, looking for a has been.
The Man-From-GOP with the gold pen
Wants eleven dollars tax, you only got ten.
[Verse 2]
Kristi cracks horse whip, face full of lip flip,
Sayin’ that she’ll rip you just for a roach clip.
Leavitt lies anyway.
Leavittt says that many say
They must bust in early May, orders from the DA.
Look out kid, don’t matter what you did.
Walk on your tip toes, real free speech blows.
Better stay away from those who master how to brown-nose.
Predispose to ignore the pedos.
You need to be a Proud Boy to know which way the blood flows
[Verse 3]
Oh, get sick, get well, try not to go to hell.
Shit smell, hard to tell if ketchup on the wall fell.
Veep Vance, couch pants, no dance, e-mail
Bound to derail, be a footnote if you fail.
Look out kid, you’re gonna get hit
By losers, cheaters, girlie users,
Hangin round the theaters.
Girl by the whirlpool’s gonna be a man tool.
Don’t follow leaders, and watch poetic meters.
[Verse 4]
Oh, get born, learn norms, stand lines, pay fines for
Concubines, get fat, shoot gats, try to wear a red hat
Donald, JD, Marco, Hegseth, big dicks
January 6, gets a pardon, and a job fix.
Look out kid, they keep it all hid.
Congress can’t complain, full of losers and the lame.
“Courts Right As Rain” means you’re totally insane.
Don’t want to be left scum? better play dumb.
The Court don’t work cuz McConnell left a bloodstain.
Tag Archives: poetry
M.A.G.A./Epstein’s Island
M.A.G.A./Epstein’s Island (Parody of “Y.M.C.A.” by the Village People)
MAGA, there’s no need to feel riled
I said, MAGA, there are no Epstein files
I said, MAGA, don’t stop the Seig Heils
There’s no need to be unhappy
MAGA, you can hate Mexico
I said, MAGA, there’s a place you can go
You can stay there, and I’m sure you will find
Many ways to have a good time
It’s fun to stay on Epstein’s Island,
It’s fun to stay on Epstein’s Island,
They have everything that pedos enjoy,
You can hang out with all the boys.
It’s fun to stay at Epstein’s Island,
It’s fun to stay at Epstein’s Island.
You can get your pipes cleaned,
And keep your esteem,
It’s a goddamned pervert’s dream.
MAGA, keep worshipping me,
I said, MAGA, be like Epstein,
I said, MAGA, you can make real your dreams,
But you’ve got to know this one thing
No man does it all by himself,
I said, MAGA, young girls want to help,
Just go there to Epstein’s Island,
I’m sure they can help you today.
It’s fun to stay on Epstein’s Island,
It’s fun to stay on Epstein’s Island,
They have all the things that perverts enjoy,
You can hang out with all the boys.
It’s fun to stay at Epstein’s Island,
It’s fun to stay at Epstein’s Island.
You can get your pipes cleaned,
And keep your esteem,
It’s a goddamned pervert’s dream.
MAGA, you’re living the dream,
I said, MAGA, be part of the scheme,
You’ll get what you want, don’t ask why,
Just ride through Epstein’s sky
When Epstein came up to me,
And said, “Donald, take a plane ‘cross the sea,”
Island’s waiting, no need to hide,
Take a ride, leave morals aside.
It’s fun to stay on Epstein’s Island,
It’s fun to stay on Epstein’s Island,
They have everything that perverts enjoy,
You can hang out with little boys.
It’s fun to stay at Epstein’s Island,
It’s fun to stay at Epstein’s Island.
You can get your pipes cleaned,
And keep your esteem,
It’s a real damned pervert’s wet dream.
M.A.G.A.
M.A.G.A.
MAGA Rhapsody
On the day of tRump’s birthday Parade I offer a new parody to the tune of Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody. Written by Steve Marsh with Executive Producer credits to Debora Marsh.
MAGA Rhapsody
A parody to the tune of “Bohemian Rhapsody” by Queen
Lyrics by Steve Marsh
Executive Producer: Debora Marsh
(Chorus)
Is this the real life?
Or just conspiracy?
Caught in a tweetstorm,
Out of touch with reality—
Open your eyes,
Look up to the skies and lie—
(Trump)
I’m just a rich guy, I get no sympathy,
Because I’m easy bought, ego stroked,
Truth is fake, logic broke—
Any way the vote goes
Doesn’t really matter
To me,
(TO ME…)
….
Interlude
(Trump)
Mama, just duped the land,
Put a big lie in their head,
Waved the flag which wraps their dead—
Mama, MAGA’s beautiful,
But now I’ve gone and stirred the Proud Boys’ pride—
Mama—OOOH,
Didn’t mean to tweet so loud,
If you don’t find me back at Mar-A-Lago,
Carry on, carry guns—
The truth doesn’t matter.
Too late, my time has come,
The walls are closing in,
Got indictments on my skin—
Goodbye, MAGA crew,
I’ve got to grift—
Gotta leave you all behind for crypto coin—
Mama—OOOH (any way the vote goes), DEB
I don’t wanna lose,
Sometimes wish I’d never agreed to run…
Interlude)
(Chorus)
I see a little silhouetto of a man—
Orange glow! Orange glow!
Can he dance a Mar-a-Lambo?
Thunderbolts and libel,
And a handsigned Bible, see—
(Guns ‘n’ tariffs!) GUNS ‘N’ TARIFFS!
(Guns ‘n’ tariffs!) GUNS ‘N’ TARIFFS!
Guns ‘n’ tariffs! Let him go!
(Trump) ?
I’m just a rich boor, nobody loves me—
(Chorus)
He’s just a rich boor from a gold family!
Spare him his place in fake history!
(Trump)
Easy win, easy grift—
Will you let me go?
(Chorus)
Q-A-non! No—we will not let him go! LET HIM GO! DEB
Q-A-non! We will not let him go! LET HIM GO
Q-A-non! We will not let him go! LET HIM GO
Will not Let him go—will not let him go!
No no no oh oh oh!
OH, MAGA MIA, MAGA MIA
(Trump)
Democracy has a jail cell just for me (for meeeee… for meeeeeeee!)
(Interlude)
(Trump)
So you think you can stone me and leave me to lie?
So you think you can fact-check and spit in my eye?!
Oh baby—
Can’t jail me like that, baby!
Just gotta get out,
Just gotta run right to Vlad’mir.
(Interlude)
Nothing really matters,
Not the law, not facts—
Nothing really matters,
MAGA… doesn’t matter…
…to me.
Interlude
(Chorus)
Any way the vote goes
Hotel Mar-A-Lago
This is a parody of Hotel California by the Eagles. It is called
Hotel Mar-A-Lago
In a land full of slogans, red hats in the mist,
Gaslight fills the air, can’t tell what I missed.
Up ahead in the distance, I saw a gold-plated sign.
My head grew heavy and my morals dim–
Had to stop for the crime.
There he stood in the doorway, with a spray-tanned grin,
And I was thinking to myself,
“This could be hell or he’s golfing again.”
Then he lit up a Big Mac and he waved me inside.
Voices down the Mar-A-Hallway
Said, “Enjoy the red tide.”
(Chorus)
Welcome to the Hotel Mar-A-Lago.
Such a freaky place (such a sneaky face),
Billionaire3 disgrace.
Plenty of room at the Hotel Mar-A-Lago.
Any time of year, (fake news and fear),
You can gaslight here.
His mind is mostly Twitter, his heart is full of spite.
He’s got a cabinet of sychophants
Who chant, “You’re always right.”
And Elon’s in the courtyard, unfollowed and half-banned,
Shouting “Mars,” and “DOGE,” and “Epstein.”
Still no one understands.
They built a wall of nonsense, with lies that never end,
But the truth got fact-checked at the border.
Now they just pretend.
And in the Lincoln bedroom they argue with a ghost.
Honest Abe’s been grave spinning
While Elon is fully dosed.
Welcome to the Hotel Mar-A-Lago,
Such a clownish scene (with a beauty queen),
On a fascist lean.
Livin’ it up at the Hotel Mar-A-Lago.
What a nice surprise (full of alibis)
When the facts all die.
TV on the ceiling. Big Macs stacked on gold,
And he said, “We are just kings of truth, the lies we have sold,”
And in the gilded bathroom, they gathered for the spin.
They quoted Ten Commandments but denied the deadly sins.
Last thing I remember, I was running for the gate.
I had to find the fact check crew before it got too late.
“Relax,” said the butler, “we’re designed to deceive–
You can log out any time you want…but you’ll still believe.”
Another rendition by friend, Joe Troyer. Thanks, Joe
National Poetry Month
Every year in April, I try to do the thirty poems in thirty days challenge. Sometimes it’s easy. Sometimes it’s not. This year, I started slowly, but I started. Today I invented a new kind of Haiku and I present the following 30 Haiku of Invasive Thoughts. I now consider my oath to do 30/30 fulfilled.
1. April First full moon
Casts knee-deep moonlight and laughs.
Trump’s a piece of shit.
2. Baseball field’s greening
With a prickle of North wind.
Trump’s a piece of shit.
3. Peepers and tweeters
Sing long into the darkness
Trump’s a piece of shit.
4. Can anything be
More joyful than your breast curve?
Trump’s a piece of shit.
5. Almost cut my hair
But remembered why it’s long:
Trump’s a piece of shit.
6. Remember when we
Were young and still loved living?
Trump’s a piece of shit.
7. Tartans are protests.
My tartan is plain, simple.
Trump’s a piece of shit.
8. Clarabell the Clown
Had wild, crazy orange hair.
Trump’s a piece of shit.
9. Red sun peeps over
The misty blue horizon.
Trump’s a piece of shit.
10. Sunday comics died.
So did Saturday cartoons.
Trump’s a piece of shit.
11. Cold frog sits in mud,
Frowning at all sitting near.
Trump’s a piece of shit.
12. It is now April.
So why call it March Madness?
Trump’s a piece of shit.
13. My love throws signals,
Pheromones drift to your brain.
Trump’s a piece of shit.
14. We, literally,
Use “literally” too much.
Trump’s a piece of shit.
15. At seventy-five
I’m still lusty, just slower.
Trump’s a piece of shit.
16. Send me dirty pics.
They just might help clear my mind.
Trump’s a piece of shit.
17. I’ve been dieting.
Do calories pay tariffs?
Trump’s a piece of shit.
18. Hit baseball batsman
Grunts an expletive loudly.
Trump’s a piece of shit.
19. Fires out west, floods here.
Tornadoes rake the alley.
Trump’s a piece of shit.
20. Mackinac Island,
The crown jewel of the Straits.
Trump’s a piece of shit.
21. Of all the women I’ve known,
The one I love the most…
Trump’s a piece of shit.
22. Dog sleeps more than me
But wakes with a whole-heart love.
Trump’s a piece of shit.
23. Beating out a bunt
Feels better than a stock crash.
Trump’s a piece of shit.
24. I work like I am
An Indian Elephant.
Trump’s a piece of shit.
25. Bluebirds adopted
The house I put in the yard.
Trump’s a piece of shit.
26. He walks his old dog.
They both wince on a bad hip.
Trump’s a piece of shit.
27. The best of teachers
Learn far more than they can teach.
Trump’s a piece of shit.
28. The gift of patience
Was given in my absence.
Trump’s a piece of shit.
29. Can ice cream be bad?
I mean evil, not just old.
Trump’s a piece of shit.
30. I believe in truth.
I believe in plain language.
Trump’s a piece of shit.
PS I used Clarabell’s image without permission. I really hope it is in the public domain. But if it’s not, and they arrest me, remember: Trump’s a piece of shit.
StupidCallousFragileRacistSexistNaziPotus
I didn’t get to the protests on April 5, 2025. I was sad about it, so I looked at all the pictures from around the nation and saw a protest sign that prompted this song. This is my offering in lieu of pounding the pavement. It is a parody and I have no singing voice, but good protest is not based on a person’s singing voice. Here are the lyrics:
StupidCallousFragileRacistSexistNaziPotus
Even though the MAGA clowns appear not to have noticed.
Blowing up the constitution really should have showed us.
StupidCallousFragileRacistSexistNaziPotus
Dumb little liar, dumb little lie.
Dumb little liar, dumb little lie.
It started back years ago when Trump was in New York.
He’d rent to white folks easily despite their line of work.
Black folks found it harder to get through Trump’s front door
Until the US Government sued his ass and more.
Dumb little liar, dumb little lie.
Dumb little liar, dumb little lie.
StupidCallousFragileRacistSexistNaziPotus
His call for tariffs in the world is really too too bogus.
To drink enough to ease my pain will only cause cirrhosis.
StupidCallousFragileRacistSexistNaziPotus
Dumb little liar, dumb little lie.
Dumb little liar, dumb little lie.
He rode an escalator and MAGA went ape shit.
They gobbled up the steaming pile of all that he did spit.
It didn’t matter if he spoke the truth or a big lie,
They ate it up and spit it back and screamed “Zeig Heil! Big Guy!”
StupidCallousFragileRacistSexistNaziPotus
Protection for plans of war is really quite atrocious.
All the stress I’m feeling’s arteriosclerosis.
StupidCallousFragileRacistSexistNaziPotus
And now he’s crashed the market and killed my pension plan.
I guess I need a cardboard sign and a great big old tin can.
But it won’t matter much because I will be dead,
Or locked up in a foreign cell…
Or locked up in a foreign cell, eating mouldy bread.
StupidCallousFragileRacistSexistNaziPotus
https://youtu.be/v9cpQiERZzw
The Mathematics of Loss
The day Isla died
There was a sighting of
A Yellow Cardinal
At an Upper Michigan backyard feeding station.
It made headlines here.
People were amazed
And cited the odds of 1 in a million
Genetic mutation.
Isla had no genetic mutations.
But a quick search shows
The odds of stillbirth
Are about one-half percent;
Higher for Hispanic and Black babies,
Less for Asians,
But about 1 in 200.
After 28 weeks gestation, the odds improve:
Only about 3 in a thousand are lost,
And after the 37th week we call them “term stillbirths.”
They are rarer still.
2.1 per 10,000. (.021%)
Three months ago, Vinnie died,
Also in the 37th week,
Also a term stillbirth,
Also absent genetic mutations.
Another .021% event.
Vinnie was my daughter’s son.
Isla was my son’s daughter.
Both gone before they got here,
In one season.
What are the odds of that in one family?
Roughly we calculate.
.021 times .021
Equals .000441:
About 4 in a million of it ever happening.
I cannot calculate the possibility
Of one family losing both
Within 3 months,
But if the data we use is annually reported,
You can divide that by a quarter of a year.
Now we can find that 1 in a million statistic.
The odds that would happen in one family are incalculable.
The headlines are rarely a couple of stillbirth obituaries
And no one is amazed.
Book of the Dead 13
This is an edited version of an earlier poem.
The Trouble with Losing Old Poets…
They are starting to go now,
Like the rockstars;
A bunch checked out early,
Not exactly a poets’ 27 Club
But a spike on the graph, for sure.
And now, we are starting to drop.
Turds from an elephant’s ass
Is the only metaphor that comes to me.
This week, another one.
Last week too.
It doesn’t seem to matter,
The fire and the ice both end.
Wind has forgotten how to blow
In Chicago and everywhere.
I wonder at next.
I look at the actuary’s lists.
I know I’m on there somewhere.
Probably pretty soon.
I love who is still in this tent
With me.
Let me say that deliberately.
But the sense of this era
seems to be a growing choice
Between mourning
Or being mourned.
If you are reading this
And you are a poet,
Let it serve as a cautionary tale.
If you are reading this
And you are not a poet,
I take this moment to bid you a conscious adieu.
Maybe read this poem again in a few years
Or next week.
The Trouble with Losing Old Poets…
They are starting to go now,
Like the rockstars;
A bunch checked out early,
Not exactly a poets’ 27 Club
But a spike on the graph, for sure.
And now, we are starting to drop.
Turds from an elephant’s ass
Is the only metaphor that comes to me.
This week, another one.
Last week too.
It doesn’t seem to matter,
The fire and the ice both end.
Wind has forgotten how to blow
In Chicago and everywhere.
I wonder at next.
I look at the actuary’s lists.
I know I’m on there somewhere.
Probably pretty soon.
I love who is still in this tent
With me.
Let me say that deliberately.
But the sense of this era
seems to be a growing choice
Between mourning
Or being mourned.
If you are reading this
And you are a poet,
Let it serve as a cautionary tale.
If you are reading this
And you are not a poet,
I take this moment to bid you a conscious adieu.
Maybe read this poem again in a few years
Or next week.
Book of the Dead 12
All I have learned of death,
I learned from a dog
When I was 14.
His name was Nic
Like St. Nicolas
Since he came to us on Christmas.
He was either a runaway
Or a drop off.
Skinny, frostbitten ears
But polite and smart.
It took a year to learn him,
His tricks,
His ways.
He loved winter
And hunting rabbits.
If it is really true all dogs go to heaven,
He’s certainly hunting rabbits
As I write this.
(I don’t know what that says for Rabbit Heaven.)
It was snowing,
I had been given new snow-shoveling duties
Near the highway.
Nic saw me shoulder the shovel
And head out the driveway.
I can’t really blame him for thinking
About rabbits.
But the guy who was driving that
Low Pontiac,
And who didn’t stop
When I chased Nic,
Sliding on his back down the highway,
Him I still blame.
I got to Nic and picked him up in my arms
To bring him back into the house,
But it hurt him too bad.
He mouthed my hand
But did not bite me in his pain.
And so I lay him in the snow
Where he finished.
I kept the flakes from falling on his face.
It was the only thing I could do.
I learned from a dog
When I was 14.
His name was Nic
Like St. Nicolas
Since he came to us on Christmas.
He was either a runaway
Or a drop off.
Skinny, frostbitten ears
But polite and smart.
It took a year to learn him,
His tricks,
His ways.
He loved winter
And hunting rabbits.
If it is really true all dogs go to heaven,
He’s certainly hunting rabbits
As I write this.
(I don’t know what that says for Rabbit Heaven.)
It was snowing,
I had been given new snow-shoveling duties
Near the highway.
Nic saw me shoulder the shovel
And head out the driveway.
I can’t really blame him for thinking
About rabbits.
But the guy who was driving that
Low Pontiac,
And who didn’t stop
When I chased Nic,
Sliding on his back down the highway,
Him I still blame.
I got to Nic and picked him up in my arms
To bring him back into the house,
But it hurt him too bad.
He mouthed my hand
But did not bite me in his pain.
And so I lay him in the snow
Where he finished.
I kept the flakes from falling on his face.
It was the only thing I could do.
Book of the Dead 11
The Dream of Heaven
I dozed in front of the boob tube.
Best sleep I get anymore.
I’d been watching a documentary
About wrangling, fighting and war.
I dreamed I was on my deathbed
And my lapsed Catholic wife
Prayed that the Catholic God
Would forgive my non-Catholic life.
In a twinkling it was over
And I was in the sky
with Jesus and Mary and a million saints
But I could not figure why.
And there were the Pearly Gates
Where no one stood alert.
But everyone was speaking Latin
And wearing long black skirts.
“There has to be an error,”
I offered to those around
But Hitler’s Pope, Pius Twelve said
“You were lost but now you’re found.”
“I don’t want to be found, sir.
I’m not a Catholic, you see.”
“It happens sometimes,” he said with a shrug.
“Administrative error,” said he.
But I’m not of the laity.
And I never knew a deacon.
Only one Priest in all my life.
Why I’m a Catholic cretin!
No bishops or archbishops.
I have no clue about their miters.
And Cardinals all dressed in red
Are only birds, not holy fighters.
No matter, said the evil Pope.
If I get in, so do you.
Just consider it affirmative action.
Now take your seat in the pew.
But I don’t know the songs!
Or when to stand or kneel.
I don’t know how to pray and
I don’t know how to feel.
I don’t know why there’s incense
And I don’t know why there’s gold
I don’t know why I can’t talk to God
Instead of a priest through that little hole.
And guilt over killing Christ…
I didn’t do the deed.
Call and response makes no sense
In a time when we all can read.
It took almost three centuries
To sort the divine hullabaloo.
And just when the ordeal seemed hopeless
Some habited nun fixed the SNAFU.
I woke from my nap with a gasp.
A preacher was on the TV,
Asking me to send him money.
A downpayment on eternity.
Forgive me, sir, if I pass this chance
To give to the Creator of night and day,
‘Cuz I don’t want to go to Catholic heaven.
Just let me Requiescat in pace.