"forebears" poems
Africa, Oh Africa!
Africa, Oh Africa!
My Motherland,
Why not take pride
in who you are?
When you converse,
You use the language of the West.
The offspring of the same parents,
And still use the language of the West.
Your own children try to distance themselves
and dress and talk like
Those from the West.
Your airwaves are filled with music,
Fast beats, foul language
and heavy metal from the West.
Even the food you eat
All processed and purchased
From the West.
Your fields are dry.
You laugh at traditional foods and ceremonies.
You have forgotten who you are.
Your heritage cries out
From the depths of the tombs
you're filling up with immorality
and your self-destructive ways.
You despise who are,
You ridicule who you are,
You try so hard to change
Who you are
Your heroes and comrades
In entertainment and politics
In the community, the society
Have been overshadowed
By those from the West.
Remember them,
Revere them,
More so alive than after death.
Resurrect Ubuntu,
Show a little compassion
For a fellow who needs it.
Stop the hate, tribalism
And racism.
This path of destruction
Will get you nowhere.
Let peace rule in the Motherland.
Respect your elders,
Salute the teachers
Who try to lead your youth
In the right direction.
Teach your children well
Violence is not the way
The pen is still mightier
Than the sword
Eradicate illiteracy
End child labour and
Marriages.
Honour, love and protect
Your women and children.
They will give you respect
and happiness in return.
Follow the footprints
Of your forebears.
Live in harmony with
Yourself.
Africa, Oh Africa!
Africa, Oh Africa!
Take note
Before it's too late!
Jun 19, 2017
Jun 19, 2017 at 6:41 AM UTC
ponces! nancies! veritable egrets of men!
people pleasing anti-charismatic animals
philistines, every one of them,
everyone else
a curse upon their forebears and a curse upon their goings-on
terrible business, that
the world should be filled with boundary pushing eccentrics, that is progress!
a plague upon normalcy, a plague upon stagnancy
uninteresting, dying off, done
ugh!
greatness can not be expected of all but at least an attempt should be made
how else will we overcome, will we build our utopia?
what use is MY struggle when others are defeated in making a move past the remote
television is for swine
rots your brain and morals
I've swell morals, just look at them
my morals reach to the moon
my morals are so swell I should run the country
my morals aren't two millenia old scriptures written by the seers of goat-tenders
my morals are modern, they are sleek and well dictated, they represent the future
my morals defy the past, my morals create new paradigms
why, you could say my morals defy all of traditionalism
and a curse upon tradition!
who ever learned from the past
history is rife with naught but sufferance
forwards is the only direction
forwards is revealed only to me
my ideals aglow with the lumine of the future
they are entrenched in idealism
me and mine, we are ideal
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 1:30 AM UTC
Blandly mother
takes him strolling
by railroad and by river
--he's the son of the absconded
hot rod angel--
and he imagines cars
and rides them in his dreams,
so lonely growing up among
the imaginary automobiles
and dead souls of Tarrytown
to create
out of his own imagination
the beauty of his wild
forebears--a mythology
he cannot inherit.
Will he later hallucinate
his gods? Waking
among mysteries with
an insane gleam
of recollection?
The recognition--
something so rare
in his soul,
met only in dreams
--nostalgias
of another life.
A question of the soul.
And the injured
losing their injury
in their innocence
--a **** a cross,
an excellence of love.
And the father grieves
in flophouse
complexities of memory
a thousand miles
away, unknowing
of the unexpected
youthful stranger
bumming toward his door.
New York, April 13, 1952
3.4k
It happened, once only,
on an African plain.
A subtle mutation
and everything changed.
On Chromosome Seven
A new protein emerged.
A peripatic primate
Spoke her first word.
There were apes that were stronger
or had larger brains.
But it was **** sapiens
who gave all things names.
The mutation of speech,
an advantage unknown,.
soon reduced competition
to a mere pile of bones.
Our forebears surged forth
From the African plains
Some wandered to China,
others summered in Spain.
As elders died off,
Their knowledge survived
Through oral transmission
til the advent of scribes.
Now each human mother
awaits baby’s first word
It’s the price of admission
to the tribe of the verb.
Jan 27, 2012
Jan 27, 2012 at 10:57 PM UTC
we did not Dye in vain!
by michael r. burch
(from “songs of the sea snails”)
though i’m just a slimy crawler,
my lineage is proud:
my forebears gave their lives
(oh, let the trumps blare loud!)
so purple-mantled Royals
might stand out in a crowd.
i salute you, fellow loyals,
who labor without scruple
as your incomes fall
while deficits quadruple
to swaddle unjust Lords
in bright imperial purple!
Originally published by The American Dissident
Notes: In ancient times the purple dye produced from the secretions of purpura mollusks (sea snails) was known as “Tyrian purple,” “royal purple” and “imperial purple.” It was greatly prized in antiquity, and was very expensive according to the historian Theopompus: “Purple for dyes fetched its weight in silver at Colophon.” Thus, purple-dyed fabrics became status symbols, and laws often prevented commoners from possessing them. The production of Tyrian purple was tightly controlled in Byzantium, where the imperial court restricted its use to the coloring of imperial silks. A child born to the reigning emperor was literally porphyrogenitos ("born to the purple") because the imperial birthing apartment was walled in porphyry, a purple-hued rock, and draped with purple silks. Royal babies were swaddled in purple; we know this because the iconodules, who disagreed with the emperor Constantine about the veneration of images, accused him of defecating on his imperial purple swaddling clothes!
Keywords/Tags: royal, purple, imperial, Tyrian, Byzantium, porphyry, swaddling, clothes, porphyrogenitos, mollusks, sea snails, royalty, kings, lords, emperors, popes
Mar 28, 2020
Mar 28, 2020 at 4:35 AM UTC
settlers came to the frontier lands
holding guns in their seizing hands
the tribal people's tears and blood
fell on the earth in a torrential flood
they'd been dispossessed of terrain
so lasting was the anguishing pain
their ancient grounds ceded away
to the occupier's colonizing sway
the Indians of the vast Dakota plains
had a culture under great strains
the foot-print put down by forebears
was nearly lost like the brown bears
yet the spirit of the tribes still survive
in their ancestral territory it's alive
they've a heritage enduring of flow
which is seen in the sun's risen glow
Mar 12, 2017
Mar 12, 2017 at 12:09 AM UTC
Is it where you come from that matters?
Is it your history, your line of descent?
Do they really know you, they chatter
Would they sit down with your friends
Where do you come from they ask
What is your story they say
Will you do away with your mask
Let them know you if they may
What went before doesn’t matter
Only the present counts
It’s a fresh start you barter
For your past in the ground
But when it comes down to it
They still want to know
Where did you come from
Where will you go
You choose your own fate
Your life is in your hands
Your future’s for you to make
You’re not bound to the land
Let them know you by your deeds
By your words and by your song
Do they need to trace your feet
To know where you belong?
What is a reputation -
But a binding rope
No leeway to stumble
For it’s a slippery slope
If the days gone by are to colour
Every speech and action
Where is the scope to discover?
Aren’t our lives but a fraction -
Of what they could be
If we believed we were free
To set forth and make waves
Or float along with the sea
But then again you may say -
Do people really change?
Can they let go of the hate -
Washed clean by the rain?
And can we trust someone who lays
No claim to yesterday -
For whom nothing can vouch
But the words of their mouth?
If one is constantly changing -
Then where does one stand?
How can the others trust you -
How can they shake your hand?
Is trust merely an illusion
We conjure up for ourselves -
To alleviate the confusion
To put reason on the shelf?
One day we all must choose
When there is much to lose
Whether to cling to the family tree
Or take flight and be free
Those you grow up with are forever
They’re the ones you never leave
Where you came from is your start
The first page of your story
But it can’t tie you down
It can’t hold you back
You mustn’t be afraid
For in the attack
They may have the armour of the known
And the weapons of their forebears
But you will have freedom
And an army of others
Your brothers in thought
And ideals and humanity
Sisters with whom you fought
The winds of disparity
So I suppose what I’m saying is
The only story worth telling
Is the one that unfolds
In the final reckoning
Sep 16, 2021
Sep 16, 2021 at 7:06 AM UTC
Inspired by the dream of the founders of city
Collated by planning of leaders and mayor,
Built by the muscle and sweat of believers
A Masterpiece fashioned for pride and for care.
Magnificent structures of bridges and tunnel
Faultlessly conjoined by highways of God,
Dreamt by the forebears of knowledge and passion
Crafted in concrete and sculpted in rod.
Towering edifices scything through city
Asphaltic motorways curving with grace
Estuaries bridged by elegant girders
Created by vision with tears on it’s face.
Fashioned by strength and belief in the promise
Fashioned by fortitude's strong hand as guide,
Crafted by people's belief in tomorrow
A Vision for Auckland and nation with pride.
Marshalg
With the Wellconnected Alliance.
AUCKLAND N.Z.
(Inspired by the animation on a good Mayor’s face)
6pm,14 February 2013
© 2013 Marshal Gebbie
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 12:45 AM UTC
I wonder how they dug the graves
and shoveled in their young.
When grass was your last supper
your reserves are clearly done.
My forebears wouldn't" take the soup",
they wouldn't sell their souls.
So perhaps determination, then,
gave them strength to dig those holes.
To starve in the midst of plenty
was the saddest sight on earth,
but to their London Landlords
Irish serfs held little worth.
It's known that a potato blight
was the famines primal cause,
but I still blame beef eating men
and the cold uncaring laws.
Feb 8, 2013
Feb 8, 2013 at 7:53 AM UTC
Palestinian Liberty
I hear your cries, I harken to your call,
Beautiful children, loving mothers I see you all,
Weeping orphans, bereaved parents I share your tears,
The bombs fall, panic, chaos I feel your fears.
Stay strong children of Palestine,
Stay strong oh family of mine,
For the day shall surely come,
When we will rise up as one.
Mutilated corpses, Rivers of blood,
Severed limbs lay on your sanctified mud,
Upon which prophets and martyrs stood,
Pillars of faith, your forebears, upholding all that is good.
You gave refuge to your captives in their hour of need,
You roots of usurpation, you planted that seed,
Graciously breaking bread with the holocaust survivors,
It is you who carry the standard of the emancipators,
Now it is you who call out for the liberators.
Will we laugh or cry at the irony,
That only the men of Palestine carry the bravery,
That only the women of Palestine bear the humanity,
That only the children of Palestine possess the capacity,
To sacrifice, to provide liberty.
Aug 6, 2016
Aug 6, 2016 at 5:19 AM UTC
My work site is climate controlled,
No Pigeons threaten my peace.
Of all of my gigs, this one is the best,
no acid rain scours my cheeks.
Yes, it is boring at times;
stuck in the Louvre, night and day,
but, as I’m a creature of Marble,
I cannot run outside and play.
Instead I’ve become an observer
of the tourists who whisper and gawk.
That girl with nice ***** is from Paris,
that fat little guys’ from New Yawk.
I pose for their pictures for free
as they snap up some memories for home.
My maker, long dead, was the master
who painted those frescoes in Rome.
Its hard to believe that the heirs
of the Renaissance men of my time
have gotten so fat and complacent,
gorging on fast food and cheap wine.
pig like are their fat chubby faces.
They prate like some fatuous child.
They are, compared to their forebears,
like butterball turkeys to wild.
Mar 30, 2012
Mar 30, 2012 at 7:54 AM UTC
A holy day it was
When the dark skinned gathered there
Under open skies unowned
On the land of their forebears
They met to offer forth their prayers
They entered the walled space
Through gated entrances five
Mixed mass of gender, age and creed
Unarmed they gathered, unarmed strived
Ruled by white Lords, to keep culture alive
From a raised bank, he watched
Fair general and his native troop
When the time was right, dropped his arm
Unleashing bullets on endless loop
Laying waste to unwary group
Swarming mass in open tomb
Clamour to protect all life and love
Mother crouched encasing child so soft
A man holding his wife, a flapping dove
None spared from cold end reigned from above
Hot metal darts indiscriminate
Sliced through humid burdened air
Muting wails of the sentenced helpless
Piercing flesh of the souls stripped bear
Earth wept with weight of blood spilled there
Thus ebbed the day of the massacre
Beaded sweat trickles down Generals brow
Blood and meat lay heaped at exits five
Shrouded in questions of the why and how
That such slaughter could one man and his arm allow.
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 6:38 AM UTC
let’s pretend that our ancestors danced in forests and ate flowers
so that we can do the same, without feeling embarrassed,
because, really, we’re just honouring our forebears, their tradition.
Feb 11, 2021
Feb 11, 2021 at 10:02 AM UTC
On the banks
of the
Delaware
where
memories
of Valley
Forge's
dire winter
encampments
still linger
where sons
and daughters
of liberty
shook off
a mid-winter
rigor mortis
risking the
slow death
of complacency
to seize
the prized
celestial
article of
freedom
America's
Labor
Movement
amassed
in the
streets of
Trenton
a vigilant
battalion of
General
Washington's
invading
brigands
speaking
in tongues
of radical
insistence
armed with
the might
of truth
demanding
respect and
equitable
treatment
from the
lordships
of state
doing the
bidding of
527 llc's
Unionists
stand
firmly
on the
shoulders,
walking
in the
tracks
rowing
the boats
of militant
forebears
pledging to
fight on
in a battle
that never ends
to
liberate
the
******
river
of justice
hijacked
by the
privilege
of plenty
diverted
into
culverts
of greed
a
gluttonous
few
siphoning
off
the spoils
of liberty
engorging
themselves
leaving
workers
wanting
democracies
require
the cup
of liberty
to be
shared by
all
The Spirit
of
General
Washington
has
mustered
new
legions
to turn
back the
entitlistas
the
pelting
rain of
lies, the
flinging
arrows of
ridicule
will not
deter
the workers
trooping
for
justice
the
fight
to roll
back
the ugly
tide of
greed
coursing
through
the veins
of America
despoiling
the blood
of our
democracy
is on
the
explosive
dynamite
of struggle
will blast
the dam
of inequity
to bits
unleashing
the river
of justice
to roll
again
Music Selection:
Pete Seeger:
Solidarity Forever
Trenton
2/25/11
jbm
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 8:08 PM UTC
TASMANIA, The Apple Isle,
rooted in conquest, convicts
and cannibalism.
Into this desolate paradise,
suffering, starving Englishmen,
dreaming of home, planted
row upon row of small neat
cottages, graciously adorned
by native English roses.
Convicted felons, shunned
from polite English society,
became her upstanding citizens,
and like her fuel-laden forests,
she smouldered, a daughter of
mother England, steeped in
her heritage like a lauded
*** of Earl Grey.
For two centuries, England
grew, a wild sunflower,
with London's sprawling
population sprouting from
1m seedlings, to over 8m
at the peak of her growth.
And somehow, somewhere,
something broke inside.
Today, proud Englishmen
mourn a loss of the spirit
and freedom of their forebears,
still proud, yet yearning
for the simple, honest
existence of a yesteryear
long lost, and not forgotten.
In Tasmania, time drifted
lazily, as outposts sprawled
into small towns, small towns
into small cities, like miniatures
mimicking the motherland
her pioneers had left behind.
But unlike her proud parent,
Tasmania remained true to
the spirit that raised her
from the ashes of convict
settlements, and a fledgling
society intent on defending
the spirit that put England
at the heart of an empire
flourished.
I am an Englishman, proud
to be born and raised in
her heartlands, and prouder
still, to have found that most
distant corner of our once
great empire that embodies still
the spirit of hard work,
fair play and decency that
is found within the beating heart
of every true Englishman.
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 9:50 AM UTC
I'm told foie gras will change my life.
That it's savory, exemplary
to die for.
Ironic.
Someone already did that.
A gavage in his throat...
plumped, fed,
suffocated by
his own fat
like an inflating noose
on an unwitting neck.
Ironic also that
his flesh inflates my girth
and feeds my gluttony.
"Stupid things...
don't even know they're dying."
Dying indeed.
A slow and painful death.
And how deserving of it, yes.
Stupid things.
Too stupid to recognize their plight.
After all, don't the stupid
deserve their fate?
Ironic how - to this day -
we still think we're so much
more evolved than
our forebears.
Evolution aside,
The Divine Rights of the Food Chain
still stand.
*I do not understand it,
therefore it is less intelligent than I,
therefore I have the right to torture it.
I made it,
therefore it cannot live without me,
therefore I have the right to ruin it.
I own it,
therefore it is mine,
therefore I have the right to **** it.*
Our strength grants us Divine Right, indeed.
May the kingdom prosper under our boots and be grateful, for
history has proven us such gracious and kind masters, after all.
Are we not?
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 7:02 PM UTC
why don't we all do the primal thing
take off our clothes and reveal everything
not a stitch of clothing did Neanderthal folk ware
they allowed their naked bodies to breath the air
nudist colonies are the last bastion of bare skin
the people at these places never fail to grin
without dresses and pants they are a happy crew
all of them putting their kit out on view
it is a norm for us to take in the sunshine whilst bare
and a law should be passed to permit this fair
we've been overly wrapped in fabric for years
no wonder we've been without any cheer
the straight laced may not be too keen on ******
but may I remind them it is such a liberty
shedding the coats and petticoats wont do any harm
and showing a little of our bodies isn't cause for alarm
our forebears of a by gone era were not glad
they ran around in the buff and never did anything bad
those who wish to be in a state of undress
take off your attire and don't feel any stress
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 8:05 PM UTC
why don't we all do the primal thing
take off our clothes and reveal everything
not a stitch of clothing did Neanderthal folks wear
they allowed their naked bodies to breath the air
nudist colonies are the last bastion of bare skin
the people at these places never fail to grin
without dresses and pants they are a happy crew
all of them putting their kit out on view
it is a norm for us to take in the sunshine whilst bare
and a law should be passed to allow this fair
we've been overly wrapped in fabric for years
no wonder we've been without any cheers
the straight laced may not be too keen on ******
but may I remind them that it is such a liberty
shedding the coats and petticoats wont do any harm
and showing a little of our bodies isn't cause for alarm
our forebears of a by gone era were not clad
they ran around in the buff and never did anything bad
those who wish to be in a state of undress
take off your attire and don't feel any stress
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 8:02 PM UTC
As a child I never knew the colour of my skin made a difference to the person within
I never looked at myself wishing I was someone else
I never had to stand in line or in a place sat behind
I never had to take a seat, at the back that was there only for me
No one ever refused to serve me because my hair was black and curly
No one ever made a joke because my eyes had a slope
I never had to appologise for the colour I was inside but judged on the outside
That's because my skin is white and hides all of me that's inside
It hides the struggles my forebears had for being foriegn and blended black
A mix that was made from love alone when someone said enoughs enough!
So the colour of a loving heart that joins another to give a child is all in all who we are
No white no black just what's inside and no more from fear should we hide
Look inside we are so much more than a label another put on us
Close your eyes we are all the same
Is it so hard for you to love that way?
Aug 16, 2016
Aug 16, 2016 at 2:45 PM UTC
** why do the white gulls call? (everyday must have its poem)**
<>
the cries are intelligible,
each a separate story of:
patient waiting, of seas
unending waving, unchanging,
cycling, waiting, prophesying,
propelling history, retaining a
staining past, future similar...
why do the white gulls call?
for evening tide rapid approaching,
we may even have a decent sunset,
first worthy of being drunk toasted,
all reminders that this ordinary Monday,
has nearly escaped without an extraordinary
composition, you prone position negates
inspiration, so rouse yourself, rise taller
tribute due, tribute demanded, tribute needed,
that is why the gulls screech, fearful of lapse,
that poet will suppress what is compelled, no,
compulsed! the senescent days offer no excuse,
indeed, the time of limitation is nigh, is here,
the gulls know their history human, its lore,
needs foretelling, retelling, and keeping
humans come and go, but gull generations require
the prescient precision of their words, to define,
to record each day’s unique way of living/dying,
so they can become forebears of the future,
the passers down, of that they cannot exclaim well,
we humans are their heroes, living close by,
we carry the gulls thanks given, for skilled appreciation
so they cry out, is our poem be readied, for the day’s end
comes closer and* every day must have its poem!
Jun 15, 2020
Jun 15, 2020 at 6:56 PM UTC
I
The arcadian past is dead.
Perhaps it never was.
On one hand a golden vision
Of gallant and splendid men.
Cobblestone dreams,
A rustic thirst,
Renaissance, invention,
A proper bow and curtsy.
The Paradise Garden and
The hedgerows of old-
Glint in the eye of the nostalgist.
Our forebears
And the open heath.
Idyllic.
Would that it still were.
On the other a practical frivolity.
Spoiled milk and discarded scraps,
Leftovers thrown out.
A forsaken time
Of blood roar and cannon,
Disease and fetid stink,
Myth and choking smoke.
Avaricious heads
Atop pauper bodies.
Ancient tombs
Built of Hebrew tears.
****** sacrifice
To hideous and foreign gods.
Barbaric.
Finally, it is no longer.
II
We, being young,
The ungrateful and resentful,
The unabashedly alien-
We are the new now.
We turned away from the trappings of
The teachings of the wise.
We sneered when those dotards
Taught us their language,
Their rules,
Their type.
We laughed when
They corrected us,
Told us not to say that.
We detached from the decrepit womb,
Formed as their inverse,
Reflecting their faces
While defying their antique sensibilities.
We grew of our own volition,
Created our own language,
Etched our own runes,
And,
Ultimately,
Shared with them
Their very graves.
III
I, being young,
And of the here,
And now,
Have been elected
Into something
So much more
Than contemporary,
Than modern,
Something so inherently
Now.
I have been gloriously birthed
Into this open present,
This wonder of
Internet
And knowledge.
The exertions of our fathers and
Our mothers' cyclical toils
Have built such a steadfast bridge
Upon which the constant contrivances
Of our Now
Race around in dynamism.
Aware of my place
In this successive age,
I fervently embrace
Our Now,
Not to reject the past,
Never,
But to nurture its nascent chapter.
-c. c. Condry
Mar 12, 2011
Mar 12, 2011 at 8:23 PM UTC
smooth son/sun, you're a holy roller
no fighting hedonism with a cold shoulder
smolder, ignite into a ******
baptism of divine alarm
because fervor is louder than alms
so you could be a rolling ball of burning fingers
kissing and singeing sinners who hinder
what you want to tear asunder
so blunder, reckless in abandon
or you could be no man's son
and everyone's sun and the one's son
father, the world weighs a ton.
our forebears split him with dynamite
nile magic, scattered like stones, own the afterlife
and he's got a son, so bright, light
got a silver dollar and a star studded collar
and the ring of fire, burns more than the rest
stuff them all down inside a god's chest
now the son's got a cold dish
aching for one last wish, match, set, game
vengeance on chaos, and sand in his throat, in his father's name
**** some brother of cain and able
way back when, when seth was still an animal
obsessive compulsive, no demons in the cosmic sieve
demons are angels, in his last breath the son wants to live
but he's got to be some kind of doom
cosmic boom, keep people straight in a narrow room
pretty tunes, ancient runes, weave the world on an almighty loom
while the sun's high, and the son's high, and it's high noon.
May 12, 2011
May 12, 2011 at 8:53 PM UTC
As we got older, it became clear
that we wouldn’t have the luxuries
of drink without worry,
of sleep without restlessness,
of raising children
without fear for their survival.
It became clear
that we would never garner
the respect of our elders
no matter how dearly we pined for it,
and that the world itself
would smolder
while those responsible
rested comfortably in their graves,
and those of us to whom
our forebears’ sins were bequeathed
would be left to choke on the smoke
and ashes
of a promise to posterity
allowed to burn instead.
Jan 3, 2021
Jan 3, 2021 at 2:33 PM UTC
At Warehouse I wander
As light seeps from the sky
Among the cold, grey tombs
Of the ancient dead
In this timeless landscape
So remote and lonely
Forgotten tongues whisper
With the wind through the heather
A harvest moon
Not yet quite full
Is the only witness
To the truth of these stones
My spine tingles
The mind races
I smell the smoke
Of my forebears cremations
And as I leave
The moon a guardian
Over these distant graves
I sense communion
Written after visiting the Warehouse Chambered Cairns on 26th August 2015.
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 1:11 PM UTC
Little ant, who art thou
that you run helterskelter
all day long, day after day,
forty-five feet for one small
piece of leaf,
three miles if I were to walk it.
Why?
Is it to assure the community
that you belong?
Is it to know you had a
part in building the pyramid of stones
you call home
that took generations of your
forebears to construct?
Or are you just a part of a great machine,
a mindless functionary
on an assembly line?
As I wonder who you are
I wonder who am I.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 4:42 PM UTC