"cavaliers" poems
spring omnipotent goddess thou dost
inveigle into crossing sidewalks the
unwary june-bug and the frivolous angleworm
thou dost persuade to serenade his
lady the musical tom-cat,thou stuffest
the parks with overgrown pimply
cavaliers and gumchewing giggly
girls and not content
Spring, with this
thou hangest canary-birds in parlor windows
spring slattern of seasons you
have ***** legs and a muddy
petticoat,drowsy is your
mouth your eyes are sticky
with dreams and you have
a sloppy body
from being brought to bed of crocuses
When you sing in your whiskey voice
the grass
rises on the head of the earth
and all the trees are put on edge
spring,
of the jostle of
thy ******* and the slobber
of your thighs
i am so very
glad that the soul inside me Hollers
for thou comest and your hands
are the snow
and thy fingers are the rain,
and i hear
the screech of dissonant
flowers,and most of all
i hear your stepping
freakish feet
feet incorrigible
ragging the world,
10.8k
A shout out to LeBron
For a big night in Akron
A welcome win for the Cavaliers
Tonight against the TimberWolves.
Cavs finally ended the drought
Via the energy they brought.
Coach Tyronn Lue drew up a game plan
That finally brought a win to the land.
Both teams put up a spectacular show
Leaving the erratic Cavs fans like wow!
The combined 3s of forty was historic,
Shot by both teams was really fantastic!
Tonight LeBron played like a real GOAT!
Playing great basketball from all over the court!
The big block on Butler is not what this is about,
But the clutched game winner fadeaway he shot!
IBPoetry
2/8/2018
Feb 8, 2018
Feb 8, 2018 at 12:25 AM UTC
A dozen fellows draped in threadbare tread densely,
Profligating goons in obsidian gowns
gathered under rainbow
moonshine shaking bronze hands,
howling and ****** in the shambles of the moon,
rap'n and nod'n to the notes of midnight.
The mellow marines mourned over malice,
lionizing over lost ones,
many howled venerated, exalted in wonder
in favor of their thrilling grace, and delight,
and brilliance, and might!
but some neighboring sticklers,
behaved haughty and in disdain,
of the crowdy Cavaliers bellowing echoes
signaling out
to the seers of the sea,
singing to the wands overwatching the wedding,
and ravens listened,
roving like noble patrolsmen.
Traveleres and trainees at sea
humble and bright
niave, and frieghtened
in traverse,
volatile and toiling,
tireless,
Lunatics, (laughing, laughing, laughhing,)
Rumaging through rain,
fireciely,
rallying and rableroused,
through towering halls of mohogony,
hefty and wholesome were their hearts
though, beast of the woodsy edifice
were foul and benumb
scowling with contempt,
haste to devide and devised to hindrance.
Hence the heroes heed
to the valleys of rose, and violet,
and strawberry fields of forever,
seeking Saint Nicholas,
in the bustling Byzantium,
in the murky shadows of doubt.
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 10:08 AM UTC
In our hammock
We couldn’t be touched
Because we were untouched
Untouched by the ground workings and up
From concrete cavaliers and spiral shaped spears
That aimed to wind and rope around the throats of what was already constricted
Instead, pricked by the roots and bark of a growing seed
And wrapped wholly in the warmth of the moon-lit face of a space so close, touched only by shoulders
And felt across lengths until the sky burst open and touched,
Our hammock
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 10:56 AM UTC
Hanging her head into depths of an oubliette,
the toilet bowl grieves inside muddied ruin.
An early avocado and piles of bile simmer
inside porcelain wastelands. Her face, a dark fillet,
fat like a flea questing on skin. Fingers joust
her drawbridge mouth. Cavaliers cannot rescue.
Tiny talons scratch the back of her throat,
distant organs heaving during the battle
of the bulge. Nothing tastes as good as thin feels.
She tastes it twice. Flecks of spit singe cheeks
like undersink chemicals. Her imperial
belly wails, a damsel distressed.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 3:43 PM UTC
I see those off
gold metallic
chevy cavaliers
everywhere.
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 3:26 PM UTC
They came by the Inn that morning,
A troop of Cavaliers,
With their swords and buckles shining,
And ringlets round their ears,
They called to the simple stable boy
To attend without delay,
To feed and water their horses,
The King would be there today.
They kicked the Inn door open
With boots that came to the knee,
Demanded an instant pottage
For the troop of twenty three,
‘So get your wife to the kitchen,
Your daughter up to the bar,
By serving us you will serve your King,’
They said to the Inn-Keeper.
They crowded into the tap room,
Where Molly was serving ale,
Made rude and haughty gestures
‘Til the girl had turned quite pale,
Their empty steins were flung at the hearth
And shattered, over the stair,
The Inn to them was beneath contempt
With its simple peasant fare.
The wife served up a ploughman’s lunch
Of wheaten bread and cheese,
They snatched and curled their lips at it
And not one mentioned ‘Please!’
They tore an edict of Parliament
That was hanging over the bar,
And held it over a candle ‘til
The ash was spread on the floor.
‘We have us an act of treason here,’
The Captain said to his men,
‘What shall we do with an Inn-Keeper
Who favours Parliament?’
They dragged him out to the stable yard
And hung him high on a tree,
Dragged the wife and the daughter out
As he died, so they could see.
‘God rot you each and every one,’
The wife screamed out in pain,
‘I curse your colours and curse a King
That could be so cruel - For shame!’
They held the daughter and dragged the wife
Out of sight, in alarm,
Despatched her with a rusty pike
And then set fire to the barn.
The soldiers started to fall about,
Were throwing up, and pale,
While Molly shrieked, ‘How did you like
My Belladonna Ale?’
They still were there when a troop rode up
Of Cromwell’s Ironsides,
Who slaughtered the King’s own troop that day
As the daughter sat, and cried.
David Lewis Paget
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 6:57 PM UTC
I wish that we’d never found it now,
I wish that we’d stayed away,
Avoided the twisted mansion that
Was fashioned in Cromwell’s day,
But we were just a couple of lads
Out there, and having fun,
We wouldn’t have thought to change the world,
Nor hurt just anyone.
The place sat deep in a bluebell wood
Surrounded by a marsh,
I said, ‘Should we?’ and he said we should,
My friend was a little harsh,
We waded up to our knees out there
Until we reached the porch,
The rooms within were as dark as sin
Till Joe took out his torch.
The house had once been a splendid place
Though the floors were deep in mud,
Of fetes and ***** there was still a trace
Then the fields submerged in flood,
The house sank on its foundations then
No doubt, to cries and tears,
Its noble crew had deserted it
For all of two hundred years.
I raced my friend to the stairway that
Led up from the central hall,
Half of the rail had fallen away,
Was resting against the wall,
When up above in a tiny room
Stood a bureau, finely made,
Inlaid with delicate parquetry
That lay concealed in the shade.
But over the lintel of the door
Was the carving of a man,
His wings spread wide, with the sharpest claw,
He was from some evil clan,
His teeth protruded over his lip
And his eyes were fierce and black,
I caught at Joe and he almost tripped
But he shrugged, and turned his back.
And on the dust of the bureau lay
A long, fine feather quill,
I knew I shouldn’t disturb it there
But I thought, ‘I can, I will!’
And beside the quill was a manuscript
In an old and faded hand,
Calling for the death of a king
That I couldn’t understand.
I knew, I’d read in my history books
That a cruel, evil one,
A man called Oliver Cromwell had
Caused pain for everyone,
He’d raised a citizens’ army and
Had thought to **** the king,
But fell to the King’s Own Cavaliers,
Was beheaded in the spring.
I knew this, yet I still signed my name
With that awesome feather quill,
It seemed to have me so hypnotised
That I quite had lost my will,
So then when a roll of thunder shook
The house right through to the floor,
The man in black that was carved, alack,
Came bursting in through the door.
He snatched at the parchment manuscript
And let out a howl of glee,
Then screamed, ‘I’ve waited forever just
To play with your history.’
I know that you think the civil war
Took the head of a rightful King,
But how could I know the power of a quill
That could upturn everything?
David Lewis Paget
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 3:42 AM UTC
The wrapes of Grath adorn the path that slammer klingks had tread
when turning spades in everglades to flosticate the dead.
Along the way the snorbels bay at freebled sprutelned
that boogeymen had once again uphove above the shed.
The buildings tall that housed the krawl are pictured carved in stone
and all that’s left is now bereft of wrapes that might atone
for scabs that feed our wrinkled breed, distraught and lying prone.
Yes, flonk replaces merpeled traces deep inside, alone.
There’s no retreat from incomplete, so durbies never dared,
but streaped instead beneath their bed with franjent fangs unbeared;
they knew the past could never last although the trumpets blared,
for doogies, stripped, were ill equipped, no longer bald or haired.
Like cavaliers with gougejent spears, well triggered for a tiff,
slank vankulures with silver spurs embussed for grimp and griff
(no question why, for “we can’t die”, the oft regleated riff);
with little fuss the blunder bus krunged glimpfly off the cliff
and fetid breet of grim defeat gave Grath its final whiff;
the catapult had one result, all life lay lazelled stiff.
The plastic waves that washed the graves, now homeland for the rutch,
though faring worse when quenching thirst with warples in the hutch
were nonetheless, as frunks confess, so pleasant to the touch
exturbing sinks that watered wynx and onetime life as such.
Like burning blotters slurping waters, skindles sipped their fill
from koozing cracks between the tracks inhumed beneath the hill,
then spawned the spores of Grathic wars that profit from the ****
their victory tales, like crimson crails, reside in dung and dill.
Those scrilly clouds that cowed the crowds neath radiation snapes
left little less than watercress beneath their coffin’s drapes;
yes, those unborn cannot adorn the pallor of the prapes
so scrundlemun tinge bibberun, we ones who reap the wrapes.
Yes, now-abandoned hetzelspan were once in time embroiled
with merikained that firps extained until the weather roiled.
What more, perchance, can happenstance inflict upon the koiled
when pendlesnips are in eclipse and wrapes of Grath are soiled?
Jul 1, 2021
Jul 1, 2021 at 5:07 PM UTC
This one's for the rebels and outcasts,
The Kubricks and Kerouacs.
This one's for the lovers,
And the poets undercover.
We'll run, run away
To a brand new day,
With no rules to obey,
Far from all those shades of grey.
So come dear,
Abandon all your fear,
Our future will be so clear,
When we live as cavaliers.
We'll lead a mutiny,
Until we're living free,
Away from all the scrutiny,
We'll run dear, just you and me.
So come dear,
Abandon all your fear,
Our future will be so clear,
When we live as cavaliers.
So all hail the outlaws,
Come on and join their cause.
All hail the cavaliers,
Living free as fear.
Jul 22, 2015
Jul 22, 2015 at 3:57 PM UTC
no matter what the words remain the same
echoing blandly down the aching years
our beast once wild has now turned safely tame
your voice is one that could with depth proclaim
ending to hurt and to the weight of fears
no matter what the words remain the same
as when we started infants in the game
certain that we'd be the new cavaliers
our beast once wild has now turned safely tame
and we have come despite the threat of shame
to know the meaning of so many tears
no matter what the words remain the same
still they are uttered out of need for blame
while horror is doled out in lavish shares
our beast once wild has not turned safely tame
and cowers uncertain of the fading flame
as each who waits at last wails and despairs
no matter what the words remain the same
our beast once wild has now turned safely tame
Jun 23, 2011
Jun 23, 2011 at 10:31 AM UTC
It is always a pleasure to engage with the rich tapestry of life, even though the prognosis may be utterly questionable.
Are you able to articulate that in which you believe?
Whenever we examine the contours of this forbidden rush of ghetto adrenaline, the texture of sound flows like an estuary of hypnotic rhythm amidst our myriad of assumed identities.
Deoxyribonucleic acid is tasty, but only whenever it is spread on burnt toast, don’t you think?
Cast your mind to those dreamy recollections of the dual carriageway, where hip-hop bass resonates with eternal unravelling and the launch of a new vessel is applauded as it ventures across geographical ponds of progress.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 11:09 PM UTC
MOTECUHZOMA
There is a third chance-medley you omit:
The several forking paths of fortune’s walks.
Seeing a panther lurking on my left,
Would you not show your lord the right-hand path?
When looking back, we do not note that fork,
Yet fate allows some swing for the intrepid.
SORCERER 2
To cure these feline fears, don’t run
From either, or your jaunt is done.
But left and right will both hold good,
If you’re the panther in the wood.
SORCERER 1
Ah, brother, who are we to armor
Arguments against this charmer?
What use, to change into a cat
As we can? He can diplomat
His way through spells, and alchemize
Pure, golden truths from steely lies.
SORCERER 2
From impotence to abstinence,
Humility from arrogance,
Plunder into philanthropy,
And sadism to justice.
SORCERER 3 See?
No bird bones nor no wands are heeded,
Only no character is needed.
ALL SORCERERS
All hail the high and mighty mage,
The gazing stock of this flat age!
MOTECUHZOMA
Cart off to jail these jaunting cavaliers!
Let them chirp out their pert remarks through bridles,
And fix their flippant eyes on cold stone floors.
Sans voice, sans books, sans tricky hands, we’ll see
What muffled incantations might avail.
Guards exit with the Sorcerers.
PRIEST OF TLALOC
These were but three. More might more prophets know.
TLACAELEL
Well, these ones missed the mark.
MOTECUHZOMA I fear not so.
All exit.
Oct 29, 2016
Oct 29, 2016 at 12:57 PM UTC
You're my Angel in Disguise
Yet you also serve as my Downfall
I thought you're my knight in shining armour in this world full of evil cavaliers
You let me fell in your trap
A trap that makes my heart beat faster
A trap that makes me in prison without bail, and
I thought your different
But you just prove that Chivalry is Dead.
Apr 29, 2019
Apr 29, 2019 at 10:46 AM UTC
Imagine you're part of a really good drum corps like Carolina Crown or Blue Devils. You're female so you can't be part of the cavaliers and you're sad. Every time you go to a competition you always make eye contact and smile at the cavaliers drum major. He does the same back. The season goes on and you don't talk till after finals. The after party of finals. "We have never actually talked but my name is ( insert name). You probably know that because they announce it every show. They don't announce every (section you're in) member. So what's your name?" He says. "(Your name). It's nice to meet you." You say with a smile. You end up talking the whole night and you get his number. It ends up both of you are aged out. You both end up working with the cavaliers the next season. Less than half way through the season you're dating. You both find out there is two openings at a school near where you both love. You both get the jobs. A few years later ( like 2) you both are still working with the cavaliers and the high school. At DCI finals at the end of the cavilers show, he proposes to you and you say yes. A few months later you announce it to your high school band you work with. A few months after that you have your wedding and all your marching band friends are there. You end up having your first child 9 months after your wedding ( you two are frisky). You both continue working with the cavaliers and high school band and you continue to have little drum corps babies.
The end
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 12:00 AM UTC
I.
Ô soldats de l'an deux ! ô guerres ! épopées !
Contre les rois tirant ensemble leurs épées,
Prussiens, autrichiens,
Contre toutes les Tyrs et toutes les Sodomes,
Contre le czar du nord, contre ce chasseur d'hommes
Suivi de tous ses chiens,
Contre toute l'Europe avec ses capitaines,
Avec ses fantassins couvrant au **** les plaines,
Avec ses cavaliers,
Tout entière debout comme une hydre vivante,
Ils chantaient, ils allaient, l'âme sans épouvante
Et les pieds sans souliers !
Au levant, au couchant, partout, au sud, au pôle,
Avec de vieux fusils sonnant sur leur épaule,
Passant torrents et monts,
Sans repos, sans sommeil, coudes percés, sans vivres,
Ils allaient, fiers, joyeux, et soufflant dans des cuivres
Ainsi que des démons !
La Liberté sublime emplissait leurs pensées.
Flottes prises d'assaut, frontières effacées
Sous leur pas souverain,
Ô France, tous les jours, c'était quelque prodige,
Chocs, rencontres, combats ; et Joubert sur l'Adige,
Et Marceau sur le Rhin !
On battait l'avant-garde, on culbutait le centre ;
Dans la pluie et la neige et de l'eau jusqu'au ventre,
On allait ! en avant !
Et l'un offrait la paix, et l'autre ouvrait ses portes,
Et les trônes, roulant comme des feuilles mortes,
Se dispersaient au vent !
Oh ! que vous étiez grands au milieu des mêlées,
Soldats ! L'œil plein d'éclairs, faces échevelées
Dans le noir tourbillon,
Ils rayonnaient, debout, ardents, dressant la tête
Et comme les lions aspirent la tempête
Quand souffle l'aquilon,
Eux, dans l'emportement de leurs luttes épiques,
Ivres, ils savouraient tous les bruits héroïques,
Le fer heurtant le fer,
La Marseillaise ailée et volant dans les balles,
Les tambours, les obus, les bombes, les cymbales,
Et ton rire, ô Kléber !
La Révolution leur criait : - Volontaires,
Mourez pour délivrer tous les peuples vos frères ! -
Contents, ils disaient oui.
- Allez, mes vieux soldats, mes généraux imberbes ! -
Et l'on voyait marcher ces va-nu-pieds superbes
Sur le monde ébloui !
La tristesse et la peur leur étaient inconnues.
Ils eussent, sans nul doute, escaladé les nues
Si ces audacieux,
En retournant les yeux dans leur course olympique,
Avaient vu derrière eux la grande République
Montrant du doigt les cieux !
Jersey, du 7 au 13 janvier 1853.
671
'Oh'
Said brevity to
Stars sinking red
--Exits
Into atom-cavaliers,
And fallopian mountains.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 4:16 PM UTC
I was officially born in the 17th century.
My homeland was England.
My parents were many.
They conceived me in coffeehouses.
I was officially born in the 17th century,
When the crowns of Scotland and England united,
When James VI, King of Scots,
Ascended to the throne of England as James I;
When civil wars between roundheads and cavaliers
Ended in Parliamentary victory,
At the Battle of Worcester.
I was officially born in the 17th century,
At the time of Interregnum,
Commonwealths, Glorious Revolution,
William and Mary
and the English Bill of Rights.
Reformation and proliferation of literacy:
People learnt to read the Bible,
Then chose to be curious and explore,
Secular literature and novels
In circulating libraries.
My parents were many.
They conceived me in coffeehouses,
Scattered around the city,
Spread throughout the country,
And finally reached abroad:
Another Revolution,
on the other side of the Channel.
My parents were many.
They met at intellectual bacchanalia,
In reading societies and clubs,
‘Cause that’s where news was communicated.
Freely criticizing politics and governments,
They engaged in conversations
in an environment of confrontation,
Social status set aside,
To listen, exchange, formulate,
Understand and comprehend.
Another William called me ‘mistress of success’,
Blaise thought I was ‘the queen of the world’.
Being well informed and debate in social networks
Was a duty, before being a right,
As my parents’ opinion would guide the rulers,
Ideally in the interest not of few, not of many,
but of all.
First heeded by governments,
They quickly learnt to manipulate me,
They muzzled me and domesticated me,
Taking away my freedom and relevance,
With the unofficial excuse by which
My parents were too ignorant
to even have a voice.
Now those coffeehouses have changed their shape,
Intangible, virtual, ethereal,
New spaces for new parents
To develop ideas, opinions,
And exchange;
Not currencies or stocks
but information and views.
I am my parents’ voice,
My name is Public Opinion.
May 22, 2017
May 22, 2017 at 6:02 AM UTC
Call in the cavalry,
those men full of chivalry
gay cavaliers to
the end.
Send in the merchants and
march in the peasants
the Monarchy is
having a ball.
Did they not ****** Caesar
to please her?
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 12:58 PM UTC
Hier il m'a semblé (sans doute j'étais ivre)
Voir sur l'arche d'un pont un choc de cavaliers
Tout cuirassés de fer, tout imbriqués de cuivre,
Et caparaçonnés de harnais singuliers.
Des dragons accroupis grommelaient sur leurs casques,
Des Méduses d'airain ouvraient leurs yeux hagards
Dans leurs grands boucliers, aux ornements fantasques,
Et des nœuds de serpents écaillaient leurs brassards.
Par moments, du rebord de l'arcade géante,
Un cavalier blessé perdant son point d'appui,
Un cheval effaré tombait dans l'eau béante,
Gueule de crocodile entr'ouverte sous lui.
C'était vous, mes désirs, c'était vous, mes pensées,
Qui cherchiez à forcer le passage du pont,
Et vos corps tout meurtris sous leurs armes faussées
Dorment ensevelis dans le gouffre profond.
448
Peste
J'hiberne jusqu'à ce qu'il soit temps, perfide,
Limpide
Contemplez-moi, impies,
Le jour du jugement est ici !
Courez par centaines,
Car seule la quarantaine
Peut vous soigner.
Peut vous sauver,
Seul l'exil
De la prévisibilité infernale de la ville
J'ai arraché les pétales de toutes les fleurs
Des cloches sonnent à toutes les heures
Pour ceux qui sont malades de pleurs,
Que ne peuvent soigner aucun docteur.
Je rempli les terroirs,
Je gratte les fumoirs
Je suis le tout,
Je suis le fou
Guerre
Je suis le vouloir
Je suis le pouvoir
Mourrez sous la loi martiale
Souffrez de la vie impartiale
Macabre moulin à viande tendre
Dans un champ fertilisé à la cendre
Le Minos des temps modernes,
Que l'on nourrit de notre jeunesse
Consomme, vorace comme en ivresse
Consume nos amis et nos frères,
Salit nos soeurs et nos terres
Les mains tachées du sang des atrocités
Que l'on regrette un fois revenue la lucidité
Personne ne nous détruits mieux que nous-même
Personne n'a jamais été sauvé dès son baptême
Je tue les espoirs
Je vole les avoirs
Je suis lucide,
Livide
Famine
Je suis le rat dans les geôles
Je n'ai plus de contrôle
Même si je fuis ailleurs,
On me ronge de l'intérieur !
Sauvez-moi de cet insatiable creux !
Je salive de tous mes yeux
À la vue de nourritures fines
Dont je suis en manque, j'imagine
La vie n'est que désirs,
Bonheur, l'excès et son plaisir
Que ne ferait pas un homme pour ne pas rater son train
Quand il se meurt, et qu'on lui promet un bout de pain ?
Que ne ferait pas un homme quand il est seul et qu'il a faim
Quand de l'intérieur il meurt, et qu'il besoin de soin ?
Je vide les armoires,
Je gratte les contoires
Je suis le vide
Je suis l'avide
Mort
La limpide clarté
La déchirante pureté
De la puissante nature,
Et de ses créatures
Les plus virtueuses,
Les plus malicieuses.
Célèbre dramaturge,
J'ai ce désir de purge,
De soulager des siècles d'agonie
Et ainsi cloître le cycle de la vie
Rien n'est aussi grandiose qu'un dernier coup de théâtre
Quand on est seule dans le silence de l'audience à l'amphithéâtre
Bien petite compensation pour avoir réprimé ses désirs
Que de pouvoir rêver un peu avant d'enfin s'endormir
Je vide les boudoirs
J'écarte le doute de revoir
Je meurs d’ennui, je suis mort,
Je meurtris la vie, je suis la mort
Apr 25, 2020
Apr 25, 2020 at 7:24 PM UTC
Down the hills and the mountain top
I marched forth my armies.
If am a King, its victory or nothing
Things ain't looking up but i take my chances.
Making up for the lost years when the sun rises.
Again you draw out my defenses,
Slayed my Cavaliers.
Burned down my walls
Laid waste my archers.
Yet u didn't raise your banners.
Its truth what they say spoken words are never enough.
When I set my gaze on you its like an afterlife.
Something never experienced yet its captivating.
First time i caught a glimpse of you
I knew you was my jarvis.
Standing under the yellow sun
You made everything just go away.
Unbelievable, how am out here still wondering and still awake.
Finding company and solace in this jars of ale.
Which directions do i turn the rudder
when we ready to sail.
Where do I face the sails the waves hit me heavy.
We just sailing a rocking boat not sure would hold steady.
Yes you made me captain, i take the wheels whenever you are ready.
I just want to know that when I slip
You break my fall.
When am drowning from falling to deep
You pull me up.
And bring me home
If I ever wander away.
Most times am like the dead sea on which our relation-SHIP is afloat
Peachy and lifeless.
I doubt my ability to exhibit those qualities when you around me.
I have undoubtedly given you the keys to the only thing I have ever owned.
I really don't know if I said enough
Or a bit to much.
Maybe just a bottled bomb couldn't hold up no more.
And for our sake, hoping you understand.
Am not writing you this either like we in the Renaissance.
Plus am not really a fighter so its aint the medieval.
Am just writing to let you know that you got me down.
Or if my pride agrees am a bit in love with you.
Which ever it is its not far to to see.
That you are all I ever wanted and ever need .
So let's make a treaty, I be your King
And you my Queen.
On God !! baby girl I tell you , see now am just a man.....kazer2018
Tm-Narcissus.... Tm-beast....Tm-god.
May 8, 2018
May 8, 2018 at 5:53 AM UTC