Ken Cucaracha, Ken Cucaracha

(Trump’s acting Director of US Citizenship & Immigration Services, Ken Cucaracha)


Ken Cucaracha, Ken Cucaracha,

Can no longer walk too far —

Ken Cucaracha, Ken Cucaracha,

Where his legs were is a scar!

What doesn’t he have? What doesn’t he have?

Is a backbone or his feet.

Ken Cucaracha, Ken Cucaracha,

Sold his parts for just one tweet!

Ken Cucaracha, Ken Cucaracha,

Stepped in the cesspool of his King —

And when he looks down, and when he looks down,

His legs and spine were both missing!

Ken Cucaracha, Ken Cucaracha,

Can no longer walk too far —

Ken Cucaracha, Ken Cucaracha,

Where his balls were is a scar!

Ken Cucaracha, Ken Cucaracha,

White Supremacist is he.

Ken Cucaracha, Ken Cucaracha,

Crushed by Lady Liberty!

The People vs. Donald Trump: Damn the Senate; Gives Us the Evidence Through Impeachment and We’ll be the Jury.

(A constituent of Congressman Mike Thompson’s (D-Napa/Sonoma Counties) strongly urges him to get off the fence on Impeachment)


Go Back to Where You Came From, Donald Trump.


Go back to where you came from, Donald Trump.

Go back to the bottom of the Jamaica, Queens dump.

Go back to the 1927 KKK rally where your father was arrested,

Go back to your federally funded housing where Black people were rejected.

Go back to Roy Cohn, and coke-sniffing at Studio 54,

Go back to kissing Mobsters asses and salivating for more.

Go back to Gambino, Genovese, Gotti and John Cody,

Go back to being the Mob’s whore, and every Russian’s toady.

Go back to calling for death for the innocent Central Park 5,

Go back to preaching hate in print and on TV, live.

Go back to your mental shitholes, your anti-immigrant bile,

Go back to pinching young pussies, in Jeffrey Epstein-style.

Go back to lying about Obama’s birth,

And 10,000 other things.

Go back to lying about your girth,

And your criminal enterprise rings.

Go back to stealing 9/11 money,

And cheating on your taxes.

Go back to hush money to your honeys,

And pleading for Wiki’s email haxes.

Go back to where you came from, Donald Trump,

Go back to the Ninth Circle of Dante’s Hellish Dump.

Go back to all your mirrors and your hairs — fewer and fewer;

Go back to where you were born, in the scummiest of sewers.

JFK, Jr., & Harry Chapin: Lovers of Life, Brothers in Death


They were always there, right in front of me: Harry Chapin, and John F. Kennedy, Jr., linked in death on the same exact date — July 16.

They died 18 years apart, their age difference, when they were both killed in terrible accidents at 38 years old. Chapin’s brief, shooting-star-of-a-life ended in the fiery crash of a small car on the Long Island Expressway; JFK, Jr.’s, in the crash of a small aircraft, somewhere off the coast of Martha’s Vineyard.

They were brothers in death, but their families — guided by strong women — and their mutual love for life were intertwined in ways that one of Harry Chapin’s five children, Jason, would come to experience first-hand, in his work directly with JFK, Jr. and his “Reaching Up” non-profit organization. The son of President John F. Kennedy founded “Reaching Up” in 1989 to give greater access to higher education and training to healthcare givers working with individuals with disabilities. The organization’s work not only enlarged the scope of the Special Olympics founded by JFK, Jr’s Aunt Eunice Shriver, but it also shared the compassion and common sense of the life-saving work done by a national non-profit co-founded by singer/songwriter Harry Chapin at the peak of his fame — WHYHunger — still tackling food insecurity in local communities 44 years after it was formed, as well as providing job skills to lift people out of poverty. Chapin and Kennedy were answering similar calls to serve others.

Jason Chapin, who worked with Governor Mario M. Cuomo and was elected to two, four-year terms on the New Castle Town Council in Westchester, County, NY, has, along with his four siblings, carried on his father’s work for WHYHunger and local food banks since 1975. He is the only Chapin to know JFK, Jr., and work with the “Reaching Up” organization and its City University of New York partner (CUNY) from 1995 to 2001.

“John was extremely passionate and dedicated to the organization, “ Jason Chapin said. “ I will always remember our Board Meetings which John chaired. He politely greeted everyone in the room when he arrived. He attended all of the annual Reaching Up Kennedy Fellows Convocations and was very friendly with the Fellows.”

It was precisely the same way JFK, Jr., greeted me at an early 1996 non-profit breakfast at New York’s Plaza Hotel which I attended as a guest of Jason Chapin’s. I was representing Downstate Medical Center in Brooklyn, and wearing a “We Believe in Brooklyn” button to boost Brooklyn’s visibility among the Manhattan political and media elite. JFK, Jr., who sat a few seats away from me at the circular table, spotted my button as soon as we got seated. He leaned over to me and whispered.

“My family believes in Brooklyn, too,” JFK, Jr. said. “We believe deeply in the Bed Stuy Redevelopment Project,” an important initiative started during the too short Senate term of his uncle, Robert F. Kennedy, when he was NY’s U.S. Senator, from 1965–68. What JFK, Jr., may not have known then was how important Jason Chapin’s grandfather, John Cashmore, was to his own father’s election as President of the United States in 1960. Cashmore, Brooklyn Borough President from 1940–1961, delivered 66% of Kings County’s vote to JFK, helping him beat Nixon in New York State by five percent, and win NY’s 45 electoral votes, giving Kennedy the 303 Electoral votes he needed to win the Presidency.

I told JFK, Jr. how important the BedStuy project was to Central Brooklyn, the community served by our public hospital, and how important his own father’s example of public service was to me in guiding my life’s work.

“You probably get tired of hearing that from so many people of my generation,” I said to JFK, Jr.

“I never get tired of hearing it,” he said. “It makes me proud to see how many people my father inspired.”

Over the more than three decades I’ve known Jason Chapin, I’ve heard him say, with unending politeness and grace, the exact same words about his father, when people tell him Harry Chapin inspired them to commit their lives to fighting poverty, or improving public health, or helping refugees find access to food or shelter.

“I’m always amazed by how many people my father reached, how many lives he touched,” Jason says again and again.

Harry Chapin, like the Kennedys, was not content to sit still, and unafraid to use his celebrity to do good, performing 2000 concerts during his 10-year music career, with half of them as benefits, raising more than $6 million to fight hunger, and millions more on his radio “Hungerthons” with WHYHunger co-founder Bill Ayres, a former Catholic priest who Marched on Washington with Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., in 1963.

As with JFK, Jr., Chapin was encouraged to take his activism, courage and compassion full-time to Washington, and run for the U.S. Senate from New York.

Harry recognized, as JFK, Jr., did with the creation of “Reaching Up” in 1989, that his name attached to any project could attract politicians, the media, the public and funding to the cause. His crusade against hunger and poverty, and his successful campaign to create a Presidential Hunger Commission with the help of Senator Patrick Leahy (D-VT.) and President Jimmy Carter, exhibited the same instincts that propelled JFK, Jr., to launch “Reaching Up” and George Magazine : they knew that politics and pop culture had merged, and that those in a position to use their fame to improve human existence, and to demonstrate their love for life, had a responsibility to do so.

(Steve Villano is at work on the official biography of Harry Chapin entitled Citizen/Artist: Why Harry Chapin’s Life and Work Matter More Than Ever, to be published in 2020. Villano’s previous book Tightrope: Balancing A Life Between Mario Cuomo & My Brother, was published in 2017 by Heliotrope Books, NY, NY.)

“Here’s To The State of Trump’s Child Killers:” An Anthem to Inhumanity


Here’s To The State of Trump’s Child Killers

(In 1965, Civil Rights activist, singer and songwriter Phil Ochs wrote and performed one of his most powerful songs, “Here’s To The State of Mississippi”. Ochs, who volunteered for the Mississippi Caravan of Music in conjunction with Freedom Summer of 1964, the campaign to register Black Voters in Mississippi. During that summer, three civil rights workers — James Chaney, Andrew Goodman and Michael Schwerner were beaten and shot to death by local Mississippi police officers working with the KKK. Ochs was so upset and outraged by the murders of Chaney, Goodman and Schwerner and the systematic battering of Blacks in Mississippi, that he wrote one of his most controversial songs, calling for “Mississippi to find another country to be part of.” Today, a similar inhumane outrage is occurring on the US border with Mexico, with the Trump Administration’s Family Separation policy, which rips children from their parents, and the unconscionable mistreatment of infants and children in cages, known as Trump Camps. With acknowledgment to Phil Ochs musical scream as my inspiration, I offer my own modified lyrics to any singer who will deliver this message with the same intensity and passion that Ochs brought to his indictment of previous crimes against humanity, committed by another Government.)

Here’s to the state of Trump’s Child Killers,

For underneath their faces, the devil draws no lines,

If you drag their muddy mem’ries, nameless bodies you will find.

Whoa, the corridors of power have hid a thousand crimes,

The calendar is lyin’ if it reads the present time.

Whoa, here’s to the land you’ve torn out the heart of,

Trump’s Child Killers find yourself another country to be part of.


And here’s to the mouthpieces of Trump’s Child Killers

Who say that folks with conscience, they just don’t understand,

And they tremble in the shadow of the Nazis and the Klan.

The sweating of their souls can’t wash away the blood from off their hands,

They smile and shrug their shoulders at the dying of a brown child

Oh, here’s to the land you’ve torn out the heart of,

Trump’s Child Killers find yourself another country to be part of.


And here’s to the homes of Trump’s Child Killers

Where they’re teaching all their children that they don’t have to care.

All the rudiments of hatred are present everywhere

And every single family is a factory of despair

There’s nobody learning such a foreign word as fair.

Oh, here’s to the land you’ve torn out the heart of,

Trump’s Child Killers find yourself another country to be part of.


And here’s to the cops of Trump’s Child Killers,

They’re chewing their tobacco as they lock the Trump Camp doors

They’re bellies bounce inside them when they knock children to the floor,

They’d rather not take prisoners in their private little war,

Behind the broken badges there are murderers and more.

Oh, here’s to the land you’ve torn out the heart of,

Trump’s Child Killers find yourself another country to be part of.


And here’s to the lawyers of Trump’s Child Killers

Who cover up their hearts as they crawl into the courts,

They’re guarding all the bastions of their phony legal forts

Oh, justice is a stranger when the immigrants report

When the Black man is accused the trial is always short.

Oh, here’s to the land you’ve torn out the heart of,

Trump’s Child Killers find yourself another country to be part of.


And here’s to the government of Trump’s Child Killers

In the swamp that they created, they’re always bogging down,

And criminals are smirking as they hold the babies down

And they hope that no one sees the sights, and no one hears the sounds,

And the speeches of the President are the rantings of a clown.

Oh, here’s to the land you’ve torn out the heart of,

Trump Child Killers find yourself another country to be part of.

Suppose They Were Jews…


Suppose they were Jews,

The babies torn from their mothers arms

At the border’s edge, never to

Embrace each other again.


Suppose they were white

And pink-cheeked Jewish boys and girls

Stuffed by the dozen into bland, white

Vans in the Texas sun.


Suppose the cages ,

Meant for dogs were filled with Jews,

Not immigrants with dark skin,

Speaking in strange tongues.


Suppose the children with dark skin

Were packed in boats,

Two-by-two-by-two thousand,

And shipped out to sea, destinations unknown.


Suppose those humans,

Shunned as outcasts

Sought to land, to live

Someplace safe, and were denied.


Suppose their ships or vans

Or caravans of terrified faces

Were forced back to the homes they fled

With only their lives.


Suppose the places they fled

Grabbed them, and locked them up in cages,

Starving, beating and killing them,

Mother and child, separated forever.


Suppose they were Jews…