"contest" poems
the lady has me temporarily off the bottle
and now the pecker stands up
better.
however, things change overnight--
instead of listening to Shostakovich and
Mozart through a smeared haze of smoke
the nights change, new
complexities:
we drive to Baskin-Robbins,
31 flavors:
Rocky Road, Bubble Gum, Apricot Ice, Strawberry
Cheesecake, Chocolate Mint...
we park outside and look at icecream
people
a very healthy and satisfied people,
nary a potential suicide in sight
(they probably even vote)
and I tell her
"what if the boys saw me go in there? suppose they
find out I'm going in for a walnut peach sundae?"
"come on, chicken," she laughs and we go in
and stand with the icecream people.
none of them are cursing or threatening
the clerks.
there seem to be no hangovers or
grievances.
I am alarmed at the placid and calm wave
that flows about. I feel like a ***** in a
beauty contest. we finally get our sundaes and
sit in the car and eat them.
I must admit they are quite good. a curious new
world. (all my friends tell me I am looking
better. "you're looking good, man, we thought you
were going to die there for a while...")
--those 4,500 dark nights, the jails, the
hospitals...
and later that night
there is use for the pecker, use for
love, and it is glorious,
long and true,
and afterwards we speak of easy things;
our heads by the open window with the moonlight
looking through, we sleep in each other's
arms.
the icecream people make me feel good,
inside and out.
195.8k
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Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 5:02 AM UTC
blonde hair.
blue eyes.
thin body.
designer clothes.
popularity contest.
matter over mind
over matter
over mind.
prom queen.
cheerleading captain.
top of the social ladder.
perfect.
depression.
anxiety.
lies.
secrets.
fake smile.
makeup.
insecurities.
tears.
eating disorder.
masks.
heartbreak.
sadness.
insecurities.
insecurities.
insecurities.
insecurities.
Sep 15, 2017
Sep 15, 2017 at 1:38 PM UTC
I say unto you with a sniveling snarl,
Will you go on and be friends with an owl?
Why, YES! I said boldly with a pompety grin
My new owl friend will be lucky and win!
He will hoot and toot a most beautiful song
He will win a singing contest and sing all day long
We will take all his winnings and spend it on mead
We'll sing, drink and be merry, indeed!
we'll capture a horse and dress it in tweed
then ride to the sunset on our horse named, "Sardine!"
Sardine might get hungry so we'll feed him some hemp
We'll lay down to rest on a bed that's unkempt
We'll wake in the morning to see Sardine's fate
Sardine has died from starvation this date
The sorrow we feel is so hard to beat
So opon his flesh we started to eat
w'ell pair it with taters all mashed in a pan
we'll eat up our dinner as fast as we can
but hold on a second, how silly are we!
We tripped on some mushrooms we found on a tree!
our minds started swirling and twirling; so dizzy!
my owl friend shrieked and then started to tizzy
he gouged out my eyes and laughed at my pain
I fell to the ground and made peace with my name
for I never did say from whence I came
cause stories like this are not easy to tame
I lay here in misery, my friend's not to blame
It's all in my head, this silly word game
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 12:48 PM UTC
The lady has me temporarily off the bottle
and now the pecker stands up
better.
however, things change overnight--
instead of listening to Shostakovich and
Mozart through a smeared haze of smoke
the nights change, new
complexities:
we drive to Baskin-Robbins,
31 flavors:
Rocky Road, Bubble Gum, Apricot Ice, Strawberry
Cheesecake, Chocolate Mint...
we park outside and look at icecream
people
a very healthy and satisfied people,
nary a potential suicide in sight
(they probably even vote)
and I tell her
"what if the boys saw me go in there? suppose they
find out I'm going in for a walnut peach sundae?"
"come on, chicken," she laughs and we go in
and stand with the icecream people.
none of them are cursing or threatening
the clerks.
there seem to be no hangovers or
grievances.
I am alarmed at the placid and calm wave
that flows about. I feel like a ***** in a
beauty contest. we finally get our sundaes and
sit in the car and eat them.
I must admit they are quite good. a curious new
world. (all my friends tell me I am looking
better. "you're looking good, man, we thought you
were going to die there for a while...")
--those 4,500 dark nights, the jails, the
hospitals...
and later that night
there is use for the pecker, use for
love, and it is glorious,
long and true,
and afterwards we speak of easy things;
our heads by the open window with the moonlight
looking through, we sleep in each other's
arms.
the icecream people make me feel good,
inside and out.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 5:31 PM UTC
Much has been said
against me
however,
I will not be spiteful
or allow hatred,
the beast of darkness
that resides
in the black jungles
of arrogance
and ignorance,
to infect me;
for that is no reason
to give way to anger.
So I refuse to let anger
ugly my heart;
for anger
is the scorpion’s poison
of peace
and love, it’s sunlight.
I choose light
contentment and happiness,
as poetry’s not a contest
of winners or losers;
it is the essence
of a poet’s soul.
Feb 15, 2018
Feb 15, 2018 at 7:52 AM UTC
In as much as I tamed the Infidel
Baptism pokes her Holistic White Tongue
Such that if you try to flip the Role-Model
For which Hypocrisy had said and done
You do not know me. If Duty must care
And stand accused tackling my Man to like
Your Mass does not shrink me; And if you dare
Take a Pied Contest and taste the First Strike
Yet in fairness your Swan-Form does exist
As billed by Tom's Twin circled in craft
Now may I come in? Or should I resist
And Boot my *** on the Beach by the Draft?
Those Stripes were hostile from a Few Years Past
Enjoy Iberia Minor; Healing can last.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 12:46 AM UTC
skimming the feed of poetry
reading the works of poets
liking here and there
without ever a care
some of us rather copiously
we all have our favorites
but the poem is just the beginning
of the start with a spark
if you never look at the activity
you are missing the best part
it's the jam that turns me on
in comments short or long
continuing the song
so don't be offended
of the flame that's ignited
its all rather splendid
to fire the wordplay excited
it's not really a contest
but more of a sinuous ebb and flow
hoping for a laugh or looking to decompress
when you have a day that blows
Mar 30, 2017
Mar 30, 2017 at 2:12 PM UTC
I think it's my eyes.
The glowing hazle stare
blankly piercing through
whatever bubbles you've shielded
yourself with.
Arms crossed means you're defensive,
raised tone towards the end of a sentence
means you're lying
but when your lips scrunch together
you're holding back something.
Maybe it's
my thought process.
One second
I'm talking about polar bears
celebrating birthdays with ******* and hexagrams
when I shift
to a rant about my self empowerment
through meditation and how astral travel
might be real.
Perhaps I'm too comfortable
with myself for you to handle.
I don't give a **** how tangled my hair is
or what weird religious doctrines you follow.
Let's have a conversation,
not an unruly **** measuring contest.
I truly love you,
and all my mild frustration
and slight agitation is radiating
from a place in my heart
that tells me I want you to succeed the most.
Jul 3, 2012
Jul 3, 2012 at 6:21 PM UTC
I am sorry for ruining all vaginas for you
I hope you can recover eventually
She said
I hate to burst your **** bubble
But I’ve slid some lies between your thighs
When howling at your moon wasn’t so much praise
As it was longing for a change of ***** scenery
People change?
How I feel right now
is like when one time I was sick
And my parents recorded a show I watched
so I could watch it later
And at the end of the show
there was a number for a contest to go to space camp
I called that number
It was disconnected
I always find out the important stuff
A little late
I cried that day
I just wanted to go to space camp
And I just wanted someone to love me like a black hole
A warm black hole to put all my love into
**** me in and fix me like there’s no turning back
I mean in the darkness of space
They all look the same
All yank at you turbulent and fiery head rush passion
I mean we all love the same
So I am sorry I overshot your Venus
To crash land in Uranus
A semi-purposeful curious passion
You coulda yelled ****
We felt like ****
When we walked away
Parts of me have always been missing
And I tried to fill the gaps with you
Problem is when you might be gay and are fighting it
Your closet is a ******
Not your fault your beard looked funny on my ****
You can’t wear a person like an accessory
I can’t slap her like masculinity till I feel straight again
Some things aren’t right
I’m not right
And you are so messed up now
Because you have this superpower to turn men gay
You can’t turn men gay
You can only remind them of the pain that lies
In lying to themselves when they know
None of this feels right
None of it will
Dear former lover
Former black hole body
Former holder of my confusion
And filler of my empty spots
I ****** up by ******* you
I ****** up
May 22, 2012
May 22, 2012 at 3:55 AM UTC
You look me in the eyes and spit,
And I kick dust on the wet spot on the ground.
This is how we are, a conversation; you never cared to call me something like my name.
I never cared to see you in any way but under my boot with blood on your teeth.
There is no moon above us, even when the sun’s gone to hide at the nearest bar.
This is not a war that can be won with pickets and strikes.
The only way to end the battle
Is that someone has to die.
A standoff only ends when one is left standing, it’s the rules,
but you never did care for rules, and breaking is easier than bending.
You never apologize and I never want to hear those words come out of your mouth.
The sun’s gone to hide at the local bar and it drinks whiskey shots like water.
It has seen us fight.
The moon doesn’t want to come out, stays tucked safe in its bed.
It has heard stories.
Only the stars act as referee, calling out which one of us died better.
It’s all an act, a ******* contest, and you sure are good at wetting the ground.
I’m better at covering up where the bloodstains were,
stain chicken feathers red as the sunset, Please, I ask you,
Let him win one last time.
The hourglass broke, the sand mixing with the red clay,
And you claim to know that his time is up.
I claim to know that you’re a lying son of a ***** who takes what isn’t his.
And you claim that I’m just a child,
but children don’t know why their knuckles are
bleeding
and children don’t get why their jaws hurt
and children only bleed when summer is restless
and children never pull real guns anyway.
You brought a knife to a gunfight,
a gun to face the firing squad, a one child firing squad,
knees stuck together with blood and chicken feathers.
Please, you ask me,
Let me win one last time.
And I learn that breaking is easier than bending;
And I learn how my name sounds on your lips.
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 9:02 AM UTC
Sometimes I miss you so much that I forget things about myself,
like, what my smile looks like or the sound of my own laughter.
But still my mind is filled with all of these useless facts
like, Charlie Chaplin once entered a Charlie Chaplin look-a-like contest and came in third place
The Empire State building was the first man made structure you could jump off of and reach terminal velocity before you hit the ground
The average person falls asleep in seven minutes.
Females' hearts beat faster than males'.
Dogs can make ten noise while cats can make nearly 100.
There are approximately 9,000 taste buds on the human tongue.
You hate thunderstorms, I am a thunderstorm.
I know its impossible to die from a broken heart.
But lately when I look in the mirror I can't even recognize myself
and reaching terminal velocity sounds sweeter and sweeter each day
At night I can not fall asleep because I am haunted by the thought of you.
My heart has almost stopped beating in your absence.
If you called me on the phone I would not know what to say,
but still your lips are the only thing my taste buds recognize as happiness
You hate thunderstorms, I am a thunderstorm
I know that you left me, so why won't you leave me?
I know that you left me, so why won't you leave me?
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 12:22 AM UTC
I'm so tired of scammers!
There are so many around!
For every situation,
A scammer is to be found.
There's the email message
From a "friend" stuck overseas
Whose money has been stolen--
Who needs your help, please.
Have you received the phone call
Saying that you're in big trouble
With the I.R.S. and insisting
That you must pay on the double?
Computer hackers will take
Your PC hostage and say
That you'll lose ALL your computer
Data unless you pay.
What about being a winner
Of a contest? All you must do
Is forward them some money
And they'll send the "winnings" to you.
If you by chance get a call
From "Microsoft" or "Dell"
Saying your account's in danger,
Tell them to go to hell.
Scamming probably reaches
Far back into history.
The demise of the Neanderthals
Might not have been a mystery.
Did early **** sapiens
With carefully planned persistence
Scam neanderthalensis
Out of its earthly existence?
If scammers had put their know-how
In a positive direction,
We could say, "Three cheers
For natural selection!"
But, no, we're stuck with scammers--
A problem that clearly shows
That if we want to survive,
We've got to be on our toes!
- by Bob B
Nov 6, 2016
Nov 6, 2016 at 8:16 AM UTC
Food for thought
Savor in flavor within structural tone
A former Competitive Bodybuilder who could hold his own
He exercised to gain and ate to maintain
It was dignity and honor in appreciation of aim
Being a Competitive Bodybuilder requires all intensity
But it was about winning on the stage spotlight being a reality
Yet beyond Bodybuilding, there was something about food and preparing a very exotic cuisine
You will see down the line in what I mean
The former Competitive Bodybuilder felt that being a Chef was always his dream
Now it will be a reality like a running stream
But to be a good Chef you need the right education and Mentor
Yes a Chef for sure
Bake until rise
Savor the taste with the right ingredients being the surprise
Being a competitive Bodybuilder, one accepts the challenges in being the best
But when it comes to a Cuisine Chef, it will be the food critics who will contest
Patrons that will eat a Chef’s dish will be the true confess
So ovens over the world
There is a Chef to make your taste buds swirl
What will he prepare?
That is something I won’t share
You will have to experience for yourself
Taste I am sure you will enjoy
This is a true story of a Chef
He has cooking to do with not much time left.
Ship Ahoy!
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 4:29 PM UTC
Deep brown color, messy as it’s eaten.
Like something that failed to crunch.
Brittle yet soft, rough and delicate.
It can be fudgy, chewy or cake-like, topped with walnuts or apricot glaze.
A heavy horse failing to hike the high mountain of crisp.
Hard on the outside, but not as taut as chocolate-chip cookies, or M&M;’s,
A fragile strength that breaks with subtle touch.
Smooth and moist inside, melted chocolate held together.
Created solely for a royal’s mouth to taste,
Slowly dissolving, sea foam ****** by the damp sand,
A guilty pleasure I cannot live without.
The brownie becoming a beautiful bouquet blossoming
In my chocolate tinted mouth.
It cures whatever ails you,
The flavor empowering any mist of dullness or bitterness.
Forgetting about everything, as he mixed the batter
Creating the perfect combination of smoothness, sweetness,
And the creamy after-taste.
Our favorite thing to bake together.
Friday evening we scurried to the kitchen, creating our own baking contest.
His hazel eyes, swirling with the batter poured in circles,
His lips, whistling to the beautiful sight of brownies, plumping as they bake.
Days later, we would come back to that kitchen,
With the scent of freshly baked brownies still lingering in the air.
We would look at each other’s deep brown eyes
Like the brownies we baked and enjoyed together.
His lips, a wallop of sweetness.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 7:52 PM UTC
United ***** College Fund
Continuing education in never being outdone
A mind can take you far providing you have the education supplying the fundamental tools
Intellect with the approach to define
Knowledge in resolutions to find
Education be ongoing doesn’t need to end
It’s a matter of affordability with an organization that says can
Having the opportunity with acceleration on when
Achieve is a form of excel
It’s tomorrow being our young people to tell
United ***** College Fund who has education to sell
College education being everyone’s given right
The thirst for knowledge with understanding in plain sight
It’s a solid learning foundation
A word having an expression
A sentence being the given promise
The paragraph forming the success
The College Graduate who can contest
Presentation illustrating achievement
It was the college education where knowledge was gained
United ***** College Fund wants this to remain
The aim to inspire continuing thinking minds
Achieve beyond and turn into wonder
“An educated mind is too precious to lose, but continued learning and not be confused”
Support the United ***** College Fund anyway you can
Put soar in education for our young people to explore, and turn from neglect which is an element of ignore.
Mar 20, 2017
Mar 20, 2017 at 3:20 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
When Trump and Carson fall
And the foolishness ceases
Rubio will be there
To pick up the pieces
He’s salivating
As his chance increases
He’s now looking at curtains
And White House leases
When Trump and Carson fall
And the race is in shambles
He’ll bet his house
You see. The man gambles
He’s not alone
Cuz there’s many other examples
Of men who’ve picked up swatches
And other samples
When Trump and Carson fall
And they look towards the rest
Rubio’s convinced
That he alone is the best
In fact he’s thinking
Nevertheless
It will be him and not the others
There’s no contest
When Trump and Carson fall
As inevitably they must
And Marco Rubio watches the others
Bite the dust
As they complain
Then spit and cuss
Marco will be the one
To lead the rest of us
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2015. All rights reserved.
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 5:44 AM UTC
Tara aking mahal,
Let's have a contest,
Paunahan magsabi ng "I LOVE YOU",
Nang sampung milyong beses,
Game ka na ba?
Teka!
Bago magsimula,
Bigyan kita ng babala,
Na pag tayo ay nagsimula,
Wag kang mawawala,
Bagama't tayo ay di makakawala,
Sa ating mga kataga,
Saglit lang!
Ito ang patakaran
Walang lokohan
Pero may giritan
Walang sasaktan
Pero may kulitan
Walang lamangan
Pero may halikan
At walang limitahan
Kapag tayo'y nagmahalan
So ano?
Ready ka na ba?
Tatlo!
Dalawa!
Isa!
Simulan Na!!
Mahal Kita :*
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 5:54 AM UTC
death mourns a life
that succumbs to suicide...
classical lawless-ness?
calls the jyst...
a thieving;
a stolen death,
a suicide....
bride riddled to a bridge...
baking...
left half awake and half baked...
you count with the number of
blinding equations...
your 80+ segments?
i want nothing to be part of,
whether polymath,
bilingual, or polymath...
you resd yourself into "it"....
fuck you, and...
**** off...
in terms of .gif ***** files...
no... the part where
we don't parrot?
for no worthwhile surprise!
death is alal b & w...
memory?
all invigorating sepia...
life?
the blooming of color...
you take shrooms,
to invigorate the colors?!
oh look...
you're as loony as me...
and why would i
give a **** about your
tall-tales of subversive religiosity?!
you're right!
like you have been with me
to begin with...
there aren't any!
now?!
suffer!
you're in good hands...
turns out?!
i'm a sadist...
i somehow tested the pain on myself...
i enjoy...
the pain, of others,
having, prior, teased the pain
on, myself!
i forgot teasing the pain...
i taste it...
i welcome it...
i've become welcoming
in allowing it,
a stature abbreviating a transcendence
of victim-hood!
i need pain,
to craft an erasure of ever having
the capacity to instruct
a modus operandi for pleasure!
death contra suicide...
a fact contra a premature contest
of pleasure...
suicide is what
death calls thief...
there is no moral artifact
of a "question"...
suicide is the thief,
when death is the executioner...
what moral question is
to be entertained?
non!
i can't blame the mortality
arsonist...
less Tartarus and more Gehenna...
less S.S. and more khaki
S.A. night of the broken windows
and less...
hyper-Hindu
reincarnation,
hue hue grey...
woo woo the ashen pillage...
no... i'm not here for the
cinder and the ********
it's enough that i drink
the sort of excuse,
that sober people could hardly make
excuses about...
and that's enough...
and enough, is, where i'll stick to.
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 10:22 PM UTC
a little boy sits on
the top of a staircase
his laden, waterlogged
eyelashes droop
his vision fogs
with salt
his heart pulses hot/cool
snowmelt
throughout the body
there are missing
people
no mother
no father
no brother
only boy
locked in house
too scared to sleep
while snowflakes
fall in unfettered
air
*there is joy in storm
if one can see it
through the tears
there is comfort
to be had once
the emotion cools
and tree branches are
unburdened from the
weight of ice*
movement happens
up the stairs
dear sister
who the boy forgot
was there
places her hand
upon the boy’s
quivering back
*"We call it snow
when the parts of God,
too small to bear, contest our bodies"*
and angels tell us
to taste the tears
before they freeze
on our red-rubbed
noses
here, taste your tears
says sister.
they’re salty, aren’t they?
Sep 4, 2017
Sep 4, 2017 at 12:13 PM UTC
Penetrate me tight-fitting and penetrate me pinned down
The lycanthropic creature you ******
This is la vie en Venus’ flytrap
When you poke me, ****** moans
And though I squeeze my vaginas
I taste la vie en Venus’ flytrap
When you ***** me abutting your *****
I’m inside a hobnobbing alien
A metagalaxy where Venus’ flytraps win a beauty contest
And when you ********* cyclopses moo from upstairs
Heterosexual homophones seem to pervert ***** Adams Glorias
Splash out your cream and gumption to me
And ***** lust loosely wash
La vie en Venus’ flytrap
Mar 31, 2010
Mar 31, 2010 at 4:06 PM UTC
Gold glitter
Only stays on the ceiling
When the upholstery is gray.
Church gyms are suddenly
Piggy banks to play
Basketball upon.
I will draw a city on
The bulletin board
And owl pushpins will inhabit it.
My mind is no longer in a
Casing of gray rick-rack
And suppositions I do not feel.
It is a precarious thing to
Play a solar piano
Under the midday sky.
Have you ever heard
A pumpkin-flavored
Volkswagen van?
It happened suddenly
That everything I could possibly
See became a photography contest.
Jul 7, 2016
Jul 7, 2016 at 8:16 PM UTC
Orange capsules of condensed vitamin C
Tumble out onto my cracked,
Outstretched palm,
As I arch my spine towards the bathroom sink,
Scooping lukewarm water from the faucet
Into my half closed mouth-
The tiny pills clog my upturned throat:
Just two of the numerous solutions
To a world too numb
To contest.
I've never felt more alive,
Than when I'm drowning my body
With handfuls of tap water
And magic remedies bottled up and
Marketed to a world
Afraid of growing old.
Lining the wall of local drug stores,
One isle over from office supplies
And scented laundry detergent.
Multicolored, multipurpose-
Labels proclaim the fountain of youth
To anyone alive enough to fear it.
There's never enough of reality
To reach our depleted veins
Through the ever present forms
Of the world. Enough isn't
Enough, until we've convoluted it into a tiny
Plastic oval, and forced it down the throats
Of those well enough to swallow it.
Pharmaceutical companies proclaim their
Daily gospel in the linoleum streets
Of hospital waiting rooms
And local grocery stores,
As I cross my heart and count the
Hours until my next prescribed dose
Of complacency. Who knew happiness
Could have the bitter after taste of
Vitamin B or
The credibility of Zoloft.
The sandman has been replaced by Benadryl,
While creativity lies stagnant
Beneath adderall's indifferent thumb.
Obsession is a 26 letter alphabet,
Strung together by a bunch of deficiencies,
Incoherently droning on
To the burden of Man,
And flickering neon light
Of a drive-thru pharmacy.
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 1:41 AM UTC
The Pigeon Gent,
He woos and coos around the river bent.
Pursues his muse with artful dance and skillful prance,
With inflated neck and ruffled plumage, until his energy or luck is spent.
He then resides by ebbing tides to ponder on his next advance.
"Now Now", "Whats This" the gent exclaims,
A shadow looming from the skies.
With ***** and claps he glides and lands with full surprise,
He spies the intruder, "A fellow Brooder".
Pigeon gent cant believe his eyes.
Pigeon Gent cannot believe the sauce,
The scurge seems intent on taking his prize by force.
At once he knows he must respond,
And force this illbread vagabond to abscond.
At once chest puffed and muscles flexed,
With wild eyes he jabs and pecks.
To teach this ruffian respect,
So on his actions he may later reflect.
He stands his ground both large and proud,
To make example of this foul winged burglar from the clouds.
"You insult me sir" he shouts aloud,
To make his intentions clear for all the crowd.
For several rounds they fight and scuffle.
With intruder retreating, feathers ruffled.
Then bested suiter fairly parted,
The quarrel ends as fast as started.
The vanquished victor displays and grooms,
As peace and honour now resumes.
Soon the ripples upset the green,
An armada of ducks come on the scene.
Alerted by the heightend coos,
They race to see what act insues.
The mighty mallards, Kings of the river,
None contest their right of way.
Their ways of conduct such generous givers.
Majestic river royalty, the law is always what they say.
On bank or shallow pebbled river they have always been,
They love to feed and breed amongst the river scene.
There royal cape made up of browny reds and shimmering greens,
reflects and intejects on mirrored water skies and evergreens.
To their mates for life and lady lovers,
The mallard gent is like no others.
Such loyalties are seldom seen,
In modern times and different dreams.
Fine and lean with striking features,
Best examples of river teachers.
But at any moment no matter how abrubt,
A river duel may easily erupt.
Battle can ensue and rage,
As both apponents approach and engage.
For they mate for life as duck and wife,
A rarity in any age or life.
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 1:38 PM UTC