My iPhone

My iPhone
(To the tune of “My Guy,” written by Smokey Robinson and recorded by Mary Wells)

Nothing I could buy, could make me put aside
My iPhone.
There’s not a book I need, everything I can read
On my iPhone.
My iPhone is my buddy, It belongs in my pocket
At night right beside me it’s charging in the socket.
I’m simply mad about, what I couldn’t live without.
My iPhone.

I google and I’m smart, but not when I’m apart
From my iPhone.
I only know to go, to find what I should know
On my iPhone.
I’m searching and I’m texting and I’m tweeting fast.
Get a screen-light high, my heart is beating fast.
In winter how I love, what I’m holding in my glove.
My iPhone.

Now scientists are finding phones can make you dumb
If you seldom use your brain and only use you thumbs.
Melania should inform President Trump
How his thumbs are getting larger
While his brain’s a stump.

My intelligence wanes, and the doctor explains
It’s my iPhone.
Few people I will meet, cause I rather would tweet
Them on my iPhone.
My iPhone’s an extension of who I am.
My humanity’s dying and I don’t give a damn.
Like an addict getting kicks, always itching for a fix
From my iPhone.

Lyric © 2017 by Robert S. Steinberg, Esquire
All rights reserved.




(To the tune of “Goodnight Sweetheart,” by Ray Noble, Jimmy Campbell & Reg Connelly (1931))

Goodbye Comey.
On my nerves you’re grating.
Goodbye Comey.
Ends investigating.

Come tomorrow.
My new FBI.
Will bandage the sty.
Confirm my alibi.

Goodbye Comey.
Democrats are whining.
Goodbye Comey.
Who’d suspect bad timing?

Hate stiff Prussians.
Why can’t I love those Russians?
Goodbye Comey.

Lyric © 2017 by Robert S. Steinberg
All rights reserved


(To the tune of, “South of the Border,” by Jimmy Kennedy & Michael Carr and featured in Frank Sinatra’s 1958 Concept Album “Come Fly With Me.”)

North of the border from old Mexico.
Down where the Rio Grande lays out its hand
in gentle flow.
The Donald is building a wall soon to grow.
North of the border from old Mexico.

He’s spending a billion to seal-off the land
But he could spend a trillion and still not even understand
These people keep coming, where else can they go?
But North of the border from old Mexico.

In their eyes you can see desperation.
There is violence and chaos about.
And when people have reached desperation.
No silly wall will keep them out.

North of the border we’re really naïve.
Thinking a wall defends when in the end walls deceive.
In shutting them out, we’re shut-in you know.
North of the border from old Mexico.

Lyric © 2017 by Robert S. Steinberg, Esquire
All rights reservied


(To the tune of, “That’s Why the Lady is a Tramp,” by Richard Rodgers and Lorenz Hart)

Promising jobs that machines will usurp.
Thinks we’re Dodge City and he’s Wyatt Earp.
Doesn’t know Cairo from Prague or Antwerp.
That why the Country’s is deep-shit

Disavows reading, says he knows it all.
Waits by the hot-line for Putin to call.
Bridges are crumbling, he’s building a wall.
That’s why the Country’s in deep-shit.

Rash threats he’s aimed at mad Kim Jong Un.
That psychotic son.
Who spooks
With nukes.

The planet’s warming, with Trump coal’s a hit.
That’s why the Country’s in deep shit.

Lyric © 2017 by Robert S. Steinberg, Esquire
All rights reserved


(To the tune of, “Our Love is Here to Stay,” by George Gershwin & Ira Gershwin.)

Thankfully here to stay.
Another year
Under the ACA

Republicans and the President
Promising to repeal and replace.
Suffered embarrassment.
All of them losing face.

Mandates the right abhors.
But to be fair.
Millions that law insures.

Donald may grimace and grumble.
Not being humble.
But, “Health-care for all,” we say.

Lyric © 2017 by Robert S. Steinberg, Esquire
All rights reserved.


It is richly ironic that the GOP health care replacement bill for Obamacare is poised to sink in the House not because it fails to insure enough Americans but because the most ideological wing of the party believes it insures too many.

(To the tune of, “Do You Hear the People Sing? (Barricade Song from Broadway Show “Les Miserables,” by Alain Albert Boublil, Claude Michel Schonberg, Herbert Krtezmer & Jean Marc Natel).

Don’t believe the GOP
vowing to benefit your health.
It’s a tax-cut they’re proposing now
to generate more wealth.
Trust the truth inside your head
and not the balderdash you’re fed.
Know this legislation’s telling
you to drop dread.

The Republicans are saying
that your welfare is their aim.
Believe the game they’re playing,
you’ll have no insurance claim.

Don’t believe the GOP.
When have they ever kept their word?
Saying more people will be covered now.
The statement is absurd.
Trust the truth inside your head
and not the balderdash you’re fed.
Know this legislation’s telling
you to drop dead.

Lyric © 2017 by Robert S. Steinberg, Esquire
All rights reserved.


(To the tune of, “The Gentleman is a Dope,” by Richard Rodgers & Oscar Hammerstein II, from the Broadway Show “Allegro,” (1947) )

The President is a troll
Don’t take him at his word
He plays a game
But takes no blame
The spectacle’s absurd
The President is a troll
With power to provoke
Flooding the web with his nonsense
With mirrors and self-made smoke

The President loves to grope.
And chaos is his goal
He isn’t suave
No Romanov
He is, No he’s a mole.
The President is a troll
And Twitter is his drug
A trawler inside the world-wide-web
He’ll slime you in time, this slug.

He’s tweets are too crass to mention
He boastfully feels no shame
All done to gain more attention
Does he not know he’s smearing his own name?

The President is a troll.
And trolls are Nazi-Huns.
Taking aim
No guilt, no shame.
At vulnerable ones.
The President is a troll.
The lowest road he takes.
Demeaning the President’s office.
Not seeing how high are the stakes.

Lyric © 2017 by Robert S. Steinberg, Esquire
All rights reserved

*Post inspired by Amanda Hess article, “Click Bait,” (NYT Magazine, Sunday, March 5, 2017)


Blame is a tactic President Trump often has used to deflect criticism. When criticized, he blames someone for something real, made-up or imagined. The death of Navy Seal William Ryan Owens in a failed military raid in Yemen is the fault of overzealous generals. The media and congress are investigating Russian communications made by members of his campaign, some of whom lied about those communications. Trump awakens Saturday morning tweeting they should also investigate President Obama’s wiretap of his Trump Tower phones. He states no source or evidence to support the charge but insists fairness demands an investigation. FBI director James Comey flatly says No! He asks the Department of Justice to repudiate the charge. Of course No! I The Russian matter heated-up when Trump’s National Security Advisor Michael Flynn and Attorney General Jeff Sessions were caught lying about their Russian contacts. Those lies are perhaps probable cause for criminal investigations not merely congressional inquiries. On the wiretap matter, we have only the President’s word. Was the source of the President’s charge a Breitbart story; or, did Trump dream it the night before? The dream possibility made me think of Johnny Mercer’s lovely song “Dream” on which this post is based.

(To the tune of, “Dream,” by Johnny Mercer (1944))

Blame, though you’ve not one clue.
Claim they’re surveilling you.
Listen to Limbaugh, read Breitbart for news
End-up with views.
That make others woozy.

Blame, showing who you are.
Blame, shifting fault afar.
Bound by no honor.
Feeling no shame.
You blame, blame, blame.

Lyric © 2017 by Robert S. Steinberg, Esquire
All rights reserved


(to the tune of “Too Marvelous for Words,” by Richard A. Whiting & Johnny Mercer (1937))

It’s no coincidence.
We’re not deaf, dumb and blind.
It’s spurious, we’re curious.
Why Sessions was perjurious?

It’s not believable.
And puts Trump in a bind.
Explaining it, disclaiming it.
His shoes keep stepping into it.

It’s obvious
To hear the Russians kvelling.
Joke’s all on us.
Where this leads there’s no telling.

Before an ending here.
You’ll want the real low-down.
Of course it’s no coincidence
The Russians love this clown.

Lyric © 2017 by Robert S. Steinberg, Esquire
All rights reserved


(To the tune of “Almost Like Being in Love,” by Frederick Lowe & Alan Jay Lerner (1947))

Trump has crowned himself King
Groucho’s one-liners zing
Well this feels like a Marx Brothers show.

With our rights being shorn
Harpo’s honking his horn.
Yes, this feels like a Marx Brothers show.

What dark humor we found in Duck Soup.
Trump and Bannon reprise that old Troupe.

And with this vaudeville clown
Came the circus to town.
Now it feels like the Marx Brothers
Reels like the Marx Brothers
Feels like a Marx Brothers show

Lyric © 2017 by Robert S. Steinberg, Esquire
All rights reserved.