Congress is again trying to postpone addressing tough budgetary issues but passing another short-term government funding bill.  Nothing new here.

(To tune of “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head,” by Burt Bacharach and Hal David, Oscar winning song from 1969 Best Picture movie, “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid,” starring Robert Redford and Paul Newman)

Kicking the can on down the road
When responsibility becomes a heavy load
Congress won’t decide
They just kick that old can again a little bit further

Because, to make a decision takes a stand
And taking a stand in an election’s year is banned
Campaign suicide
So, they just kick that old can again a little bit further

But they must surely know
They’re putting on a show there
And we know here
A country kicking cans is heading nowhere

Because, kicking the can on down the road
Is just like the hopping of a narrow-minded toad
Feeling satisfied
But toads never make it to the end of a long road
Your feet are free
Kick them out of DC

Lyric © 2011, 2014, 2015, 2018 by Robert S. Steinberg
All rights reserved


(To original melody)

Please Mister Santa
Don’t send me any toys.
Got no one here to watch me play
Like lucky girls and boys.

When you’re an orphan
Your mom and dad are gone.
They’ve told me they’re in heaven now.
But still they’re all I want.

And so I had to write this letter.
Send what would make this hurt inside feel better.

Someone to love me.
And take me as their own.
Please don’t forget me Santa.
I’m so small and all alone.

Please Mister Santa
I need a Merry Christmas
Before I’m fully grown.


© 2015 by Robert S. Steinberg, Esquire
All rights reserved


(Original poem)

If I am thankful for my home,
I will shelter the homeless.
If I am thankful for this meal,
I will feed the hungry.

If I am thankful my children are safe,
I will protect all children.
If I am thankful for being loved,
I will bestow loving kindness on all.

If I am thankful for my portion,
I will give generously to the needy.
If I am thankful for my talents,
I will keep mindful my failings.

If I am thankful for my freedom,
I will respect the rights of others.
If I am thankful for this life,
I will revere the miracle it represents.

If I do not,
I am not truly thankful,
Only selfish.

© 2010 by Robert S. Steinberg, Esquire
All rights reserved


(To tune of “New York, New York,” by John Kander and Fred Ebb)

Been hitting the booze
Since Trump took the helm
I fear he’ll make a wreck of it
Our U.S.A.

Proclaiming fake news
His threats overwhelm
He’s certain to make dreck of it
Our U.S.A.

A Constitution
To his thinking is just passé’
Believes insanely he’s King.
And all must obey.

Examine the clues
He’s out of his realm
He campaigned for the heck of it
A spoiled kid at play

Now lacking self-control
He might nuke the world to coal
Then Goodbye Trump
and U.S.A.
Our U.S.A.

Lyric © 2017 by Robert S. Steinberg
All rights reserved


(To the tune of Band on the Run by Paul McCartney and Wings)

Ryan and McConnell,
Playing on their fiddles
Donald’s on the trumpet
Drummer’s Rand
What a band, mama,
What a band!

How’d we ever come down to here?
From admired to the garbage dump.
We sure hit a wrong note somewhere
The band leader was Donald Trump
How’d we ever come down to here?
All we needed was Donald Trump.

Well, the news resounded with a heavy thud
Heard what old Judge Moore had done?
Paul Ryan says to McConnell, hey bud
Are you still having fun?

We’re that band on the run.
We’re that band on the run.
Now the GOP’s Majority
Is poised to be undone
Love that band on the run,
Band on the run
Band on the run,
Band on the run.

Well, Trump was wailing up a health-care bop
But he brutalized the run
And Rand is drumming up another stop.
Tax Reform won’t see the sun
Love that band on the run,
Band on the run
A Trump White House, all cat and mouse
Mueller’s chasing not for fun.

They’re a band on the run
Band on the run


Lyric (except for title) © by Robert S. Steinberg, Esquire
All rights reserved


(To the tune of “I’ve Got a Crush on You,” by George & Ira Gershwin)

Too bad the misled voters
For Trump still are his doters
They prize, his beady eyes.

They fawn over his squealing
Don’t realize he’s stealing
Their dreams, with all his schemes.

I’m no fancier of his gigantic id.
Thought he’d never get elected, but he did
You know I see right through him
And simply must say to him
My dear old Mister Trump

I’ve got some news for you Mister Trump
People you abuse know, “You’re a chump”.
Who’s never had one emotion
That isn’t fueled by vain self-devotion.

Who can’t see what’s obvious.
Why this silly tweeting, blunderbuss?
The world is no garbage dump
For all your brainless thoughts
My dear Mister Trump.

Lyric © By Robert S. Steinberg, Esquire
All rights reserved


(To the tune of :”Blue Skies,” by Irving Berlin)

Tax Cuts
Bestowed in a huff.
Ladle out tax cuts.
Trump wouldn’t bluff

Tax games
A Bill no one reads.
Praise the new Tax Law.
Nobody needs.

Voting for a change made in a rush
Congressmen hide. Senators blush
Embarrassing to learn nobody’s knows.
What’s in the bill, they’ve just proposed.

Tax gifts.
Corporate relief.
Another big wealth shift
More Middle Class grief.

Lobbyists are poised, ready to swarm
Capitol Hill. They’ll stir up a storm.
Benefits galore throughout the Code
And no one gives up their Motherlode

Tax cuts
Steal like a thief.
Helping You- Know-Who
Our Commander in Chief.

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

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.




The finale to the 2017 Summer of Romantic Fluff is my lyric to a lovely melody and main musical theme from the film Forrest Gump. The movie begins with Forrest sitting on a bench while the camera follows a floating breeze-blown feather. An evocative, metaphoric scene.

(To the tune of “Feather Theme,” From 1994 film, “Forrest Gump,” by Alan Silvestri)
Life can be free and light, a feather,
Floating on velvet air.
Life seems about to settle down, and,
Then it skips off somewhere.

Life is a Chekov play, a farce,
A tango with de-je-vu.
Life is each precious day I spend with you.

Anywhere life can lead, we’ll follow.
Mystery has its charms.
Anytime I feel lost, you’ll be there,
Guiding me to your arms.

I’m not a smart man, but I know,
What everyone surely knows-
Life is feather, tickling your toes.

Lyric copyright 2016 by Robert S. Steinberg, Esq.
All rights reserved
You can find the Forrest Gump soundtrack movie Feather Theme on YouTube at




More Summer of Romantic Fluff. This lyric is a repeat from 2016’s summer with some alternative lyrics.

(To the melody of “Syracuse” by Henri Salvador)

When Syracuse was where you loved me.
The moonlight shimmered on the sand.
The stars were lucky charms above me.
My heart was putty in your hand.

The sunrise augured joy for me there
Still it reminds me of your smile
When it was heaven just to be there.
With you in Syracuse a while.

Its streets once paved with dreams and magic.
Warm breezes whispering your name.
When I revisit now seem tragic.
With you not here, nothing’s the same..

Old Syracuse feels drab and lonely.
As by myself I wander ‘round.
The haunts we knew are places only.
And not the Syracuse we’d found.
Gone is the Syracuse we’d found.

Lyric 2016 by Robert S. Steinberg, Esquire
All rights reserved

You can find one haunting version of the song at: