#1974
Archangel Patpàpa ruddy mine
sigh..
I'll be seeing you.
~~~~~~~~
Our old rddbba song.
In all the old familiar places
That this heart of mine embraces
All day and through
In that small cafe
The park across the way
The children's carousel
The chestnut trees
The wishing well taking in your daily coin twenty years?
true love how not to adore you.
I'll be seeing you darling
In every lovely summer's day
In everything that's light and gay
I'll always think of you that way
I'll find you in the morning sun
And when the night is new
I'll be looking at the moon
But I'll be seeing you
But I'll be seeing you
you "youme, meyou"
my sweetest dearest love.
~~~~~~~
In Hollywood by Billy Holiday
For Karijinbba. 74-95-05/2020. revised 06-16-20
Apr 28, 2020
Apr 28, 2020 at 1:41 PM UTC
And so once upon a year when young
As spring, and heir to haunting stories
Told down the long evenings,
Wild, yet not wretched, with catapult and stones,
Over the bomb site which were our fields,
Now buried in memories by time and its hands.
On mantle covered days we went our ways
Through storms not yet full blown, and had the look
Of mischief in the circle of our eyes;
Sweet were the teeth of penny feasting, schools
Our private prisons, Saturday's our praised parole to run the roads of freedom to our haunts.
And so once upon a year when knee-high,
In scruffy clothes of choice, dark
Shoes turned light by dust,
And grubby, tubby, short and smiling,
There did I wander far, yet chased no star
Across dry desert, nor sang hymns to a fear;
On the holy opening late Sundays, where suns
Let not the glimmer in hearts go waste,
I fled nor raced to meet no end
As days drew windows to be close.
1974 poem first published in my first book of poems in that year. (c)Terry Collett
Aug 22, 2019
Aug 22, 2019 at 5:02 AM UTC
We were in a bar
in Amsterdam;
it was noisy
with punters.
She sat on a bar stool
next to me.
What did you think
of Anne Frank's house?
Seemed ghostly,
I said,
as if all that tension
and anxiety had been
soaked into the walls.
She lit a cigarette
and inhaled.
I did likewise.
Someone must
have split on them.
Guess so,
I said.
Some one laughed loudly;
another spoke in Dutch.
Did you hear
what that ***** said
on the minibus?
What about?
I asked.
How she'd had this guy
in the back of a lorry
and he'd left the brakes off
and the lorry moved
along the side street
and hit a wall,
and they
were thrown apart?
No, never heard her;
I tend to ignore her
when she talks,
I said.
She's a ****
but I still have to
listen to her.
We sipped our beers
and smoked
our cigarettes.
You want to come
to my tent tonight
and such?
Sure,
I said,
let's.
Jun 16, 2019
Jun 16, 2019 at 2:43 AM UTC
You preferred the Mahler
rather than the Delius;
the record played on
your Hi-Fi as we sat
on your blue sofa.
You'd brought us two
glasses of whiskey
and we sat and listened.
There was a print on the wall:
some country scene,
lovers at the corner, kissing.
The curtains were drawn closed
to shut out the street lights
and moon.
Not sure
I could be roused
by Delius, you said,
Mahler it is
who rouses me.
We sipped and sat
next to each other.
Last time I was there,
after Mahler's 5th
we went into your bedroom
and undressed
and made love.
After we lay there hot
and drenched with sweat,
and you said your husband
could never bring you
to such heights.
I remember
our first time,
a year or so before,
and I had come
to your apartment,
and after talk
and drinks,
you seduced me.
You were much
older than I,
but it unwound me
and brought life back
into your bed.
Sometimes I brought
wine or sherry;
often we drank
a whole bottle
between us.
Years later,
a friend of ours
stopped me and said
you had died:
your heart had stopped
and you were found
alone on your bed.
I hadn't seen you
in years;
we had drifted apart.
I remember
your warm smile
and over-beating heart.
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 6:02 AM UTC
The Mahler played.
You poured us scotch
and we sat on your blue sofa
sipping the scotch
from small glasses.
You said your son
had visited with his wife.
Skinny ***** Dark haired.
Tongue like a viper.
You seemed unimpressed
with his choice.
You lifted the glass
level with your eyes.
"They call it amber nectar"
you said.
I sipped mine.
Mahler's second
movement ended.
You gulped down
your scotch.
"Here or on the bed?"
you said.
I drained my glass.
"Bed is best"
I said.
You eyed me.
"Word is
you have eyes
on the temporary nurse"
you said casually.
"There is always gossip"
I said "she's not my type."
You raised an eyebrow.
But you knew
she might be
somehow.
Apr 20, 2018
Apr 20, 2018 at 2:44 PM UTC
We were lying on her bed
listening to Gustav Mahler.
It was a small bed
so we were pretty much
thrown together after the event
of making love.
Both of us were hot
and lay there letting the air
from a slightly opened window
cool us down.
“I prefer his Second”
she said
“it has a more
religious overtone.”
Percy had been reduced
to a kind of cigar stub
and lay there
pathetically sleeping.
“I like his First
it has that power
and excitement
that he only tries to redo
in later symphonies”
I said.
She had small soft fruits
sleeping stiff there.
Nearby a cow mooed
and in the distance
a tractor moaned
across a field.
“I thought you preferred
his Fifth you said?”
she said turning
towards me.
“I did but I prefer
the First now”
I replied.
A dog barked
over the way
and a car sped past
on the lane outside.
“Thank you
for the Solzhenitsyn book”
she said
“it looks quite deep.”
I noticed how well formed
she was and how her small thatch
was a different shade
to that of her hair on top.
“It is deep
and rather depressing”
I said.
Another cow mooed
and the dog barked again.
A car drew up slowly
in the drive.
“The parents”
she said
and leapt from bed.
I leapt off too
and scrambled
for my clothes
as did she
like a scene
from a film.
The car's engine
was still running.
She looked out
of the window
cautiously.
“It's not them
someone has drawn in
by mistake
and are going out again”
she said
sounding annoyed.
I stood half dressed
half ****
She mouthed expletives
which sounded quite rude.
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 4:02 AM UTC
Stockholm early evening.
She was with him
walking the City's streets.
A fight broke out
between two men nearby.
She screamed and hid
behind him.
He took note
and felt a poem
coming on.
The two men
circled each other
shouting out
in foreign tongue.
Benny moved
as the men moved
and she walked behind him
calling out "Stop fighting."
One had a knife
he had produced
from a pocket.
She screamed.
Benny took note
of the knife type
and how the man
held it and passed it
from hand to hand
like a conjuror's trick.
A crowd gathered
and voices called out.
The men circled
each other more.
A police car siren
droned in
and the men
dispersed in the crowd
and out of sight.
The police came
and the crowd spread out
revealing nothing.
Benny had his poem in mind
and she clutched his arm
with a sense of alarm.
Apr 16, 2018
Apr 16, 2018 at 2:56 AM UTC
The sun shines above
the bridge in Hamburg.
He stands beside her
taking in the scene
of sun and bridge.
She has her camera
and takes a few snaps.
He watches the sunlight
play on the water's skin.
They walk the City
taking photos
now and then.
Her camera
is better than his
and so she
takes the most.
They stop for coffee
and cake at a cafe.
"That Polish girl told me
her mother hates
the Germans"
Dalya says.
"I suspect she does"
he says.
Dalya explains
what the Polish girl had said
about her mother
and the Germans.
Benny listens
sipping his coffee.
The young German waitess
has beautiful eyes
and a slim figure he decides
as she passes the table.
Dalya relates
that her uncle and aunt
died in Auschwitz.
Her mother's brother
who had stayed behind
hoping things
would get better
but they never.
Benny listens
to the waitress
talk to a customer.
That sparkle in her eyes.
Dalya lights up a cigarette
and offers one to him.
They smoke and talk.
She about the photograph
of her uncle and aunt
in a frame in the hall
at home.
He listens
bringing to mind
the night before
them making out in the tent
at the camp base.
Body against body
and face against face.
Apr 14, 2018
Apr 14, 2018 at 3:24 AM UTC
He had brought
the Mahler 5th
and a bottle of wine.
He sat in her
dim lit lounge
on her white sofa.
She put the Mahler
on her hi-fi, poured
two glasses of wine.
He gazed around the room:
the paintings, low brow,
a few photos of her family.
She entered
with the glasses of wine
and put them down
on the table.
The music unfolded
in the room.
She sat beside him
picking up a glass.
He sipped his wine.
They lay back together
and kissed.
She talked of her son
a police officer.
He talked of the psychology
of ***** and the ****** revolution.
They drained their glasses.
She drew the curtains.
They undressed
ready for bed.
The third movement
of the symphony began;
the theme familiar
inside his head.
Mar 5, 2018
Mar 5, 2018 at 2:15 PM UTC
You were picked up at Dover
by the mini-bus. I was already
on-board with three others.
You came and then two more
climbed aboard and the driver
/guide drove on to the ferry.
He parked some place and
we walked along to the bar
on the upper deck. You eyed
all of us and I guess we eyed
you, trying to suss you and
each other out. Two Polish
women stood together(mother
and daughter), a young teacher,
a Yorkshire lass, you and I sat
together at a table; the driver
went off with two others and
played pool. Even then people
paired off. You stuck near me,
avoiding others if you could.
Once we landed in Belgium we
drove to the first base camp.
No tents. We had to spend the
first night stuck in a caravan.
Men slept on the floor in sleeping
bags the women on the beds
in the back. Not a good start
to the trip. We boozed that first
night and ate in the base camp
restaurant. I slept bad on the floor
of the caravan: there wasn't much
room to move around and someone
gave out a snoring sound.
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 11:39 AM UTC
You felt Anne Frank's house
to be haunted
when we went there
while camping
in Amsterdam.
It had a haunting feel,
I sensed too.
We had coffee
in a small cafe,
then walked through
the various streets.
We'd seen
the Van Gogh art,
then went back
to base camp
to our tent.
We'd bought a few souvenirs
to take back home.
You said you didn't want
to think about that:
the going home part.
You to Scotland
and me to Southern England.
I guessed we'd not meet again;
although we might
keep in touch.
But we didn't.
After parting
I at that London station
we went our separate ways.
I still remember
you waving
until your train
was out of sight,
like a dream
vanishing from.night.
Feb 12, 2018
Feb 12, 2018 at 4:25 AM UTC
Dalya argued in harsh whispers
with the Yank girl in the back of
the mini bus. Don't want to know
about who you've spread your
skinny thighs for. Benny couldn't
focus on Solzhenitsyn's book on
the labour camps and for whom
her legs were spread. He closed
the depressing book with its red
cover and Solzhenitsyn's gaze
looking at him. Yank Girl, reddening
muttered: just chitchat in confidence,
not for all and sundry. We're coming
into Copenhagen, the driver/guide said.
Yank Girl looked daggers at Dalya,
then gazed out a window. Dalya wiped
spittle from her lips and wiped her hand
on her jeans. Benny wondered who it
was that lay between her thin thighs.
Not him; may be the guide or bearded
Aussie or the school teacher with
the red ears. Dalya sat back and
held his hand. Her fingers entwined
with his, skin on soft skin. Last night
she spread her wings and he was in.
Sep 19, 2017
Sep 19, 2017 at 3:25 PM UTC
Amsterdam, 1974,
base camp.
Dalya and Benny
were lying
in the tent smoking,
watching the smoke
hit the roof
of canvas and twirl
about their heads.
Did you know canvas
is the Dutch word
for cannabis?
She said.
No I didn't,
he said.
And when Thomas Jefferson
wrote the draft
of the Declaration of Independence
he wrote it
on hemp paper,
and hemp is basically cannabis,
she said,
eyeing him,
releasing a flow of smoke.
Isn't it illegal?
he said.
Not back then it wasn't,
she said,
in fact in 18th century America
in Virginia it was illegal
not to grow it.
You ever smoke it?
He said.
Tried it,
she said,
but not my thing.
It would soon be time
to return back to Blighty,
across the Channel
on the ferry.
Would he see her again
once they returned back?
He doubted it;
they lived in different
parts of the country;
lived different lives.
Music was in the air,
pushed out
into the base camp
from loud speakers,
some heavy rock stuff.
They lay there
watching the smoke rise,
loop and twirl and twist
before their eyes.
Aug 2, 2017
Aug 2, 2017 at 1:17 PM UTC
We arrived
at Zeebrugge
then drove to
our first
base camp
at Bruges
only to find
our tents
were not there
so we slept
in a caravan
over night
in cramped conditions.
In the morning
I was up first
so walked
to the nearest shop
and bought a small loaf.
I nibbled it
on the way back.
I was the first one in
the cafe
had a coffee
and croissants.
The girl Dalya came in
and sat at my table
she had ordered
the same.
She complained
about the caravan
and overcrowding.
I listened
as she moaned
and lit her a cigarette.
We sat talking
and smoking
until the other members
of our group came in
each one was moaning
to our guide
and driver.
He explained
about the reason
said we'd get
a discount from
our overall charges.
Then our tents arrived
we loaded them up
on top of our mini bus
and set off
through Belgium.
I sat next to Dalya
and the Aussie guy
who said little
but gave her
the smile and the eye.
Jun 5, 2017
Jun 5, 2017 at 2:33 AM UTC
Night after night
you dreamed of her.
You wanted to return
to the dream once you
woke, but when you
did she wasn't there again,
just that sharp piercing
overwhelming heart pain.
You bought her the box
set of Mahler's 6th,, wrapped
it with a pink bow, not
a man thing, but well,
you know. In her eyes
you saw a new world:
blue skies, puffy clouds,
sun's light pouring down,
and sadly men that drown.
You loved her lips when
speaking or still, the redness
or paleness, the kissing from
and of them, which none
can condemn. You embraced
her in dreams and for real,
her body close to yours.
Arms encircling, hands touch,
words spoken, but not overmuch.
Night after night you dreamed
of her, kissing, making love,
holding hands, but that was then
in what you called, never ever lands.
May 27, 2017
May 27, 2017 at 11:08 AM UTC
You were lovesick over her,
but she was out of your class,
on a different plane,
different ideas and values,
but you were lovesick over her.
Wrote her too many letters
over too few days
when she was away,
and you so lovesick
you couldn't eat
or relax or read
and only music fed
your hunger for her.
She brought you back
a postcard
by some Russian artist
and you pinned it
to the door of your room,
and had the one photograph
she gave you framed
like some work of art
and you'd gaze at it
listening to Mahler,
looking towards
a future with her
you knew you wouldn't have
not in a thousand days.
You were lovesick over her,
over her bright eyes
and long hair,
and those tight,
but small *******
you never saw,
but hoped to,
but never did,
just the outline
propped up behind
the jumper or tee shirt.
You were lovesick over her
but she went off
and the sickness eased
and went away
and you never saw her
another day.
May 26, 2017
May 26, 2017 at 2:43 AM UTC
The Yank *****
shares my tent
yaks about the guys
she's had and how
and where
as if I care.
Ever read Sartre?
she says
all that existential stuff?
I say I have
just to get her
off my case.
We make our
own luck
she says.
I smoke
and study the tent
how the stained blue
looks cheap.
I wonder how often
it's been used
on these trips.
Did I tell you
of that guy
in Hamburg?
she says.
No I say
although she may.
Well he had this
big tool and I mean big
she yaps on
and spreads
her arms wide.
I said to him
you could fish
with that.
She laughs.
I smile picturing it
and did you?
I say.
Of course
she says
never turn down
a good seeing to.
The smoke drifts
from the cigarette
and floats about my head.
I wish Benny was here
and not her
wish it was him
lying there like her
completely bare.
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 1:16 PM UTC
Mrs Ford
went to the window
and peered out.
Just roofs
Benny
she said
and smoke
and grey skies.
I looked around
the bed
and breakfast room
we'd hired for the night.
Not much of London
to see from here.
See more later
when we go out
I said.
But it'll be
dark then
she said.
She drew
the drab curtains
and looked back at me.
Have you slept
with anyone before?
she said.
Yes a few
I said.
None
my age though
I bet
she said.
One older
I said.
She raised
her eyebrows
Casanova are you?
No just been lucky
I said
does your husband
know you're
with me?
She looked away
at the room
the double metal
bedstead.
Not with you
I told him
I was meeting a friend
and going to see
a show up here
she said.
Was he suspicious?
I said.
Couldn't care less
if he is or was
she said.
What shall we do first
go get a bite to eat
at one of the restaurants?
I said.
She looked at me
do you know a place?
she said.
Yes my brother and I
come here often
I said.
Or we could make
the most of our bed
and room
she said
before dinner.
She gazed
at the old bed
then at me.
If you like
I said.
We'd not
had *** before
so were
apprehensive.
She began to undress
and I began
to undress too.
I watched her
as she took off
her top and skirt
********** myself
out of routine.
The wallpaper
was dull and worn
the single light bulb
was dim
and the shade dusty.
We stood naked
looking at each other
then at the bed.
I thought of what
her husband would think
and saw him
watching us
in my head.
Apr 27, 2017
Apr 27, 2017 at 6:46 AM UTC
Dalya sleeps
in her sleeping bag
on the other side
of the tent.
I lay awake
thinking on the day
the visit
to the Van Gogh
museum.
The meal
in the restaurant.
Our conversation
on art and philosophy
and the psychology
of Wilhelm *****
Late night revellers
walk through
the base camp.
The rock music
from the loudspeakers
has ceased
and a peace
like deep fog
settles over us.
Someone drunkenly
sings going by.
When we made love
I noticed a mole
on her inner thigh.
I kissed it
for luck.
Tomorrow we make
the journey home
and each go
our separate way
our journey
in reverse
a fond farewell.
Seems an age
since we first met
that first day at Dover
awkwardly gazing
about us
waiting for
the minibus
to pick us up
to rover Europe's
camp-sites
and see the cities.
Keep in touch
she said
but I don't suppose
we will.
We live too far apart
to make it last.
A few late night
wanderers go by
into the night.
She sleeps peaceful
over there
like a child
without worries
or care.
Apr 27, 2017
Apr 27, 2017 at 2:57 AM UTC
Worlds die
she said
people die
but the gods live on.
Benny knew it
was the ***** talking
but he listened to her
none the less.
In the background
the Mahler's 6th
coming from the Hi-Fi
over in the corner.
Where'd you read that?
he said.
Not read
she said
intuition a woman's
intuition.
She supped
more of the scotch
he had brought
he supped too.
You know what?
she said
making love
is to be with the gods
momentarily such
as mortals can briefly
so we need
to make love.
Her speech
was slurred now
but understandable.
Are you sure?
Benny said.
She stared at him
of course the gods
demand it of us
she said.
She closed her eyes
sipping the last drops
of the scotch.
He finished his
and placed it on
the coffee table
in front of the blue sofa.
She put her glass down
with a clatter.
What about the music?
he said.
It will play on
she said
Mahler shall be
our accompanist
to the love making.
She stood up
from the sofa unsteady.
Are you ready
for the task before us?
she said.
Sure am
he said.
She took his hand
and led him out
of the room along
the passage to her
bedroom.
Here is our altar
she said
pointing to the bed
unclothe yourself
she slurred.
She proceeded
to disrobed herself
swaying back and forth.
Are you sure
about his?
he said
********** slowly
watching her sway.
It is as the gods demand
she replied.
He stood and watched
as she lay on the bed naked
her clothes thrown
on a chair.
She was silent
the Mahler filtered down
to the bedroom
the final movement.
He watched her
her eyes closed.
He began
to dress again
as she dozed.
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 6:22 AM UTC
*******
the drunk said.
Benny was looking
in the window
of a bookshop
in Charing Cross Road
waiting for his brother
who was buying a book.
*******
the drunk said again.
Benny looked around
the drunk
was looking at him.
You middle-class ****
the drunk bellowed.
Benny looked
at his own reflection
in the window.
The white flowery shirt
the pink flared trousers
his dark brown hair and beard.
Me? he mused
I am not middle-class
at all
Benny bellowed back
and if you want to see
how **** I am
come back here.
The drunk stood there
swaying
*******
he bellowed
and walked on
up the road.
Benny's brother
came out of the shop
what's the noise?
who were you
bellowing at?
Some drunk
called me
a middle-class ****
Benny said.
His brother smiled
told you not to wear
those pink flares
he said.
Did you buy
the book?
Benny said.
His brother
showed him
the book about
the Sole Brothers.
They walked on
to the restaurant
for a meal and wine.
Benny smiled
they sure knew
how to ***** and dine.
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 5:37 AM UTC
Dalya bought a burger
at the burger joint,
bought a beer
at the camp bar.
Sat on one
of the benches,
ate the burger.
Benny sat opposite,
ate his hot dog,
sipped his beer.
They'd been
into Stockholm,
saw the sights,
ate at some cafe
that did good meals.
Rock music churned out
over the loudspeakers,
ACDC stuff.
What you doing after?
She said.
There's a disco over
by the shower block,
he said.
Don't fancy it,
she said.
Where's the Yank girl?
He asked.
She's off
with the Aussie
in the City.
My tent or yours?
Benny said.
Makes no different,
she said.
If they come back
too soon we're *******
She ate,
eyed him.
He sipped,
eyed her.
Her knees touched his
under the bench.
Won't be back
in awhile,
she said.
The ACDC ended.
Crowd noise.
Beer stink.
Burger smell.
Led Zeppelin
music started.
After we can,
she said.
My tent is best,
she added.
He nodded,
smiled.
Music got louder,
got wild.
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 11:41 AM UTC
We'd left Hamburg
and got back into the minivan;
Dalya beside me,
the others in their usual place.
I opened the Gulag book
by Solzhenitsyn;
it was a depressing book
but I read on.
It's about the labour camps
in Russia isn't it?
Dalya said.
Yes between
1918 and 1956,
I said.
Why read it
if it's depressing?
she said.
I want to know
the truth,
I said.
Truth about what?
she said.
What happened in Russia
during that time,
and the camps,
and why so many people
went there and died there,
I said.
The Polish woman
and her daughter
said nothing,
but looked at the book
I had in my hands.
I remembered
the woman
had said that some
of her relations
were in the area
occupied by the Russians
in the war,
and the others
in the part run
by Germans,
and both suffered
and some died
or disappeared.
I wondered what
she thought
about the book,
and if any of her relations
ended up in a camp
on either side.
I said nothing,
but read on
page after page,
with Dalya's thigh
close to mine
warm and tender.
I recalled
the other night
in her tent
making love to her.
Feb 2, 2017
Feb 2, 2017 at 5:50 AM UTC
Benny liked
the Van Gogh paintings
in Amsterdam.
You went with him
and after you ate
and drank
at a cafe.
You know poetry
don't you Benny?
you said.
Yes sure
he said.
Do you think
Whitman was gay?
He looked at you
don't know
can't say
I've not read
much of his stuff
or know much
about him
he said.
I read it some place
you said.
Does it matter?
Benny said.
Not at all
you said
just wondered
if he was.
Benny lit a cigarette
and offered you one too
and you took one
and he lit it for you.
What do you find
so fascinating
about Van Gogh's art?
You said.
It speaks to me
Benny said
more than any
other artist
I see movement
in his skies
and trees
and in the fields.
You inhaled deeply
and watched
as Benny spoke
about the Sunflower print
he bought and how
he gazes at it
as a kind of prayer.
You mused on him
sitting there
wishing you and he
were back in the tent
making out
on the sleeping bag
while the other girl
was with some other guy.
Benny had asked you
a question about Amsterdam
but you never heard
and didn't give a ****
Dec 30, 2016
Dec 30, 2016 at 2:17 PM UTC
Dalya and I
were lying on the grass
by my tent
at the base camp
in Amsterdam.
The sky
was a bright blue
and warm.
Do you know
how many Americans
died in that civil war
they had
between 1861 & 65?
she asked,
turning to look at me.
No idea,
I said.
An estimated 620,000,
she replied,
that Yank girl told me
the other night
in our tent.
That's a hell of a lot,
I said.
It is;
she said hundreds
of thousands
died of disease apparently.
She lit up a cigarette
and gave me one too.
I studied the sky,
clouds drifting by.
As many died
in captivity
as were killed
in the whole Vietnam War
so she had read,
Dalya said.
At least it
made a change
from her talking
about the guys she
been to bed with,
I said.
Guess so,
but her great-great
granddaddy was in it,
she told me,
he survived
but lost a hand.
I mused on it
and inhaled
and looked at Dalya:
is she sleeping
with you tonight
in the tent?
I asked.
Yes, I guess so;
I think she
and the Aussie guy
have split up,
they weren't talking
in the mini coach
this morning,
Dalya said.
Shame,
I said,
we could have
made out again.
She smiled
and said:
yes guess so,
but that's life,
and there you go.
We lay there
under the sun,
and I thought back
at the ****** fun.
Nov 23, 2016
Nov 23, 2016 at 2:14 AM UTC