"hobo" poems
(March, 1919)A LIAR goes in fine clothes.
A liar goes in rags.
A liar is a liar, clothes or no clothes.
A liar is a liar and lives on the lies he tells and dies in a life of lies.
And the stonecutters earn a living-with lies-on the tombs of liars.
Aliar looks 'em in the eye
And lies to a woman,
Lies to a man, a pal, a child, a fool.
And he is an old liar; we know him many years back.
A liar lies to nations.
A liar lies to the people.
A liar takes the blood of the people
And drinks this blood with a laugh and a lie,
A laugh in his neck,
A lie in his mouth.
And this liar is an old one; we know him many years.
He is straight as a dog's hind leg.
He is straight as a corkscrew.
He is white as a black cat's foot at midnight.
The tongue of a man is tied on this,
On the liar who lies to nations,
The liar who lies to the people.
The tongue of a man is tied on this
And ends: To hell with 'em all.
To hell with 'em all.
It's a song hard as a riveter's hammer,
Hard as the sleep of a crummy hobo,
Hard as the sleep of a lousy doughboy,
Twisted as a shell-shock idiot's gibber.
The liars met where the doors were locked.
They said to each other: Now for war.
The liars fixed it and told 'em: Go.
Across their tables they fixed it up,
Behind their doors away from the mob.
And the guns did a job that nicked off millions.
The guns blew seven million off the map,
The guns sent seven million west.
Seven million shoving up the daisies.
Across their tables they fixed it up,
The liars who lie to nations.
And now
Out of the butcher's job
And the boneyard junk the maggots have cleaned,
Where the jaws of skulls tell the jokes of war ghosts,
Out of this they are calling now: Let's go back where we were.
Let us run the world again, us, us.
Where the doors are locked the liars say: Wait and we'll cash in again.
So I hear The People talk.
I hear them tell each other:
Let the strong men be ready.
Let the strong men watch.
Let your wrists be cool and your head clear.
Let the liars get their finish,
The liars and their waiting game, waiting a day again
To open the doors and tell us: War! get out to your war again.
So I hear The People tell each other:
Look at to-day and to-morrow.
Fix this clock that nicks off millions
When The Liars say it's time.
Take things in your own hands.
To hell with 'em all,
The liars who lie to nations,
The liars who lie to The People.
10.5k
Once I lived deep in a forest
My bleeding heart turned to stone
I disappeared out in the shadows
A hollow tree I called home
I know what it is to be a hobo
Train to train, same house twice
I know how it feels to beg and borrow
To share my roll with scratchy mice
Once I even tried to phone home
But the number slipped my weary mind
And when I finally did remember
It all seem such a waste of time
Do you know what it's like to be a hobo?
Nobody knows you when you're down
Memories haunt you like a cold wind
I was lost but now I'm found
Now I live upon a mountain
High above the raging sea
Timeless, old but not forgotten
This hobo nature inside of me...
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 9:23 AM UTC
Oh sleepless night
What a trick on me you play!
For the reason I cannot sleep
Is because I anticipate the day
We build our day up
To have it elapse at night
But how too often a time I experience
A continuance through the night
Oh how unfair to me you see
For nighttime is a break much overlooked
Because I walk through the day quite sleepily
Which is difficult in a day so overbooked
Sleeping figures
Rejuvenating minds
Your mind is cultivating in peace
While my face is forming lines
Oh how I wish I didn’t get so worked up
I expected this to happen
Which ironically is the reason
My tiredness has been dampened
I lay in bed, ready
Ready to try this out
A pleasant sleep is all I wanted
Without completely passing out
How I get so jealous when
You lay there and drift to rest
While I’m dealing with two polar issues--
Either abruptly collapse into sleep or else from it slowly digress
Oh sleepless night, you tease me so
You fool with me and upset me so
For when thinking of tomorrow I surely know
I’m not going to be as lively as my potential.
It’s like I’m a hobo on Fifth Ave
Looking at the rich not realizing what they have
I get excited over spare change
While you collect your pay checks again and again
So let’s face it, tomorrow I’ll be miserable
And I’ll look forward to when the clock strikes night
But then the hours I have will become considerable
So I’ll lay there restlessly and drift away just before the light.
So I’ll get a taste of what sleeps like
But I’ll never get to experience it right.
Oh you cruel, mean sleepless night!
Where dwells your brother so known as the “Goodnight”?
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 4:53 PM UTC
I’m born, the world is warm
I learn about God, Love and Peace is never forlorn
Memories of compassion and safety like a song
No more lessons lately, wonder what went wrong?
A sting of a Bee in my heart said they were gone
I tried to reach the next of kin a lot, but only felt next to sin along
Once, I heard a Lion Queen roar
And so the young had to leave and be in the raw
Sep 25, 2014
Sep 25, 2014 at 3:33 AM UTC
Gabby Abrego
I'll never let you go go
unless we go to Mexico
and you be come a hobo!
Then I'll go.
and fetch the so co.
so we can dance to disco
eat enchiladas with adobo
pick the **** out of our Afros!
We'll feel so funky,
the people will get spunky
when we arrive on donkeys,
and ride around their towns!
We'll befriend all the junkies
and give them howler monkeys,
it'll be so funny
we'll laugh until you cry!
Ohh! Gabby Abrego I'll never let you go go
unless I get you prego
then I'll run like mad!
cuz if we had a baby
I'd stop being lazy
get as famous as THE LADY
support you like Eminem did for his baby.
So Never Ever leave me
Or I'll succumb to Scientology
and go even more crazy
my world'd become a mystery.
I'd rather be a rhino
rather be tricked into a *****
rather be married to Bono
in a movie starring J.Lo
be forced to live with Yoko Ono
have red eyes like an albino
than to ever be with out
Gabby Abrego!!!
Jul 12, 2010
Jul 12, 2010 at 1:01 AM UTC
Hobo Sun,
My heart beside me
Hobo Sun,
This life defile me
Hobo Sun,
Oh here I'm following...
chorus
I hit those streets, tracks, highways,
and I'm following, follow every-day,
I'm following, every-day.
My Hobo Sun,
Your path known
Hobo Sun,
Mine not so
Hobo Sun,
CAN'T YOU HEAR ME!
Hobo Sun!
HOBO SUN?
chorus
I hit those streets, tracks, highways,
and I'm following, follow every-day,
I'm following, every-day.
Hobo Sun,
I'm homeless...
Hobo Sun,
I know this...
Hobo Sun,
Have nothing
Hobo Sun,
You're everything...
chorus
I hit those streets, tracks, highways,
and I'm following, follow every-day,
I'm following, every-day.
Hit those streets, those highways,
Hit those streets, tracks, highways,
Hit those streets, every-day
Hit those streets.
I hit those streets...
alcohol
drugs
those streets,
my tracks, high way
chorus
I hit those streets, tracks, highways,
and I'm following, follow every-day,
I'm following, every-day.
chorus
I hit those streets, tracks, highways,
and I'm following, follow every-day,
I'm following, every-day. *
Dec 17, 2016
Dec 17, 2016 at 8:55 PM UTC
I'll be on the front lines
Fighting fireflies on a Golf Course
With a butterfly net
Collecting ghosts in mason jar
to plant back on the cemetery
The crows are making nests
in the skull of your family
They accidentally put
the wrong name on yours
And in Latin!
It's ok though, because you're
(were) Are? a nihilist
The river Nile is the
best stream of consciousness
Known to man and of
Course that's where you drowned
your metaphorical thoughts
While you hung yourself above
a treadmill trying to pretend
you wanted to be a better
man
But you only ran away
The Stonehenge is the front gate
to your home
It's made from
billboards and
Pictures of static
When you're dead you
Live in White Noise
You're turning my lights
on and off
as I'm trying to sleep
haunting me in
my over easy eggs
making the yolk run
in words "Miss me?"
And of course I do
But you are as good a my imaginary friend
When I'm walking in the
park with all the scarecrows
you make the dandelions
float, no amount of
wishes is bringing you back
I know boards of wood are
easier to you than the termites
eating the tumor in my brain
from the insanity you're causing me
So instead I paper mache my
room with love letters from you
that got lost in the mail
because you stole them for me
A banksy bankrupt in original thought
I'm building a tiny forest
of matches
If I can't sleep I'm joining you
So you pack your bags, hobo
style but with
Picnic baskets and dead leaves
Seancing yourself
With the crystal ***** of my eyes
I lost you in some newspaper ad
about a Home for sale
Does it come with a family?
How is that legal?
But I lost you because I bought the wrong copy and couldn't find that one blurry word that was you saying
Good morning
I lost you at sea
And in my dreams
And to your own hands
And to my own memory
I'm dancing with wolves
Called Alzheimer's
because I'll die
with a disease of age
Instead of house burning, building leaping
Front Page
Then we'll go live in abandoned
amusement parks with creaky
Ferris wheels turning
Like you in your grave
And me with the Cycle of Life
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 7:34 PM UTC
do we you or i live life? I think so
we live life and experience things like the cosmos – nebula's, constellations and galaxies the speckled white backdrop of purple green on a black satin sky at night – so magnificent
we live life and experience things like that hobo – cold and homeless an image of pure sadness we look at the wretch and feel despair – he smiles, his shallow and sickly eyes say the opposite. So we wonder what is his story, his history – a mask
we live life and experience things like a rainbow – an optical illusion that has no end and no beginning, it is infinite and we reach and reach and grasp and grasp and and we never get a grip – a mirage
we live life and experience things like children – inebriated adults proclaiming a grin of innocence and a smile of sweetness in small form – we cling to our youth, much like the rainbow or the lion seeking his prey we hunt for it – **its momentary **
we live life and experience things like exhilaration – riding a roller coaster, a high speed car chase – watching a man land on the moon, falling in love, and the times when childlike excitement fill our bodies – the escape
life is so magnificent, who we are behind the mask, how we see a mirage, and its momentary fleeting passing, and our escape –living for the escape.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 6:33 PM UTC
Who?
...
What are the choices?
----
None
---
---
Christ the hobo the freight train
The buggered boy the ****** ***
The boy in the basement video games
The blind man's bluff the the walking lame
---
Who?
.
Why you ask?
--
I don't know what else can I say?
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 12:43 AM UTC
A CLOWN IS...
A ~ one of a kind
C ~ CRAZY Clown
L ~ LAZY Clown
O ~ ORNERY or FUNNY Clown
W ~ WHITEFACED Clown
N ~ NONSENSICAL Clown
A Clown can make one happy
A Clown can look very sad
A Clown can be called Apple Annie
And wear an Apple on her head.
A Clown comes with many names
It depends on who they are.
There was a Hobo Clown named Emmett Kelly, Jr.
Who always made me sad,
for he wore old rags, and walked real slow,
But he wasn't very scary, for that I was real glad.
And then there was BOZO the clown
Whose horn he beeped, and beeped and beeped
At least he was a funny Clown,
He never wore a frown.
The scary one was Penneywise the dancing Clown
From the movie IT...
He was the scariest Clown I ever saw
Fingers real long, and he lived in a sewer.
Now since I love dancing, one would
think he was my favorite...for he was
called the dancing Clown.
But when he climbed out of the sewer,
and hid behind the doors,
Let me tell you folks,
I wasn't watching any more...
But let me add my favorite Clown
Her name is Polka Dot...
She's been my friend for 60 years
She keeps me laughing, even when
she's not in costume...
Polka Dot's real name is Ginney Jean
She IS A CLOWN my favorite kind of friend.
by ~ judy
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 7:19 PM UTC
1. Go on a scary ride 10 times in a row.
2. Go Skydiving.
3.Make a time capsule.
4.Spend 1 day without talking.
5.Say yes to everything for a day (expect if it is: harmful, embarrassing...).
6.Face my fears.
7.Learn how to drive a car.
8.Go camping for a week (with friends).
9.Go without TV for a month.
10.Donate blood.
11.Walk around barefooted for a day (SolesforSouls).
12.Dress like a hobo for two days.
13.Drink 100 cups of coffee (& stay up all night).
14.Take a picture of a jellyfish.
15.Change my style.
16. Read 10 classic books in a 2 days.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 1:28 AM UTC
Chicken is very good
watermelown *****
xbox one is awesome
I may or may not be a hobo
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 12:03 PM UTC
I REMEMBER here by the fire,
In the flickering reds and saffrons,
They came in a ramshackle tub,
Pilgrims in tall hats,
Pilgrims of iron jaws,
Drifting by weeks on beaten seas,
And the random chapters say
They were glad and sang to God.
And so
Since the iron-jawed men sat down
And said, "Thanks, O God,"
For life and soup and a little less
Than a hobo handout to-day,
Since gray winds blew gray patterns of sleet on Plymouth Rock,
Since the iron-jawed men sang "Thanks, O God,"
You and I, O Child of the West,
Remember more than ever
November and the hunter's moon,
November and the yellow-spotted hills.
And so
In the name of the iron-jawed men
I will stand up and say yes till the finish is come and gone.
God of all broken hearts, empty hands, sleeping soldiers,
God of all star-flung beaches of night sky,
I and my love-child stand up together to-day and sing: "Thanks, O God."
2.2k
Tell me what you see when you look at me.
My eyes? My pert, soft buttocks? My beer belly?
Do you even see anything at all?
Maybe, you don't even register me. Maybe, I just walk past you and you walk past me and we both just ignore each other.
There is no special recognition, not a hint of longing or regret.
Just a casual, accidental bump because you were on the phone talking to some random ***** named Trish.
Or, maybe, just maybe, what you see, sets your libido on fire.
You can't bear to look at me because it's like looking at the sun;
You think that if you stare too long, your eyes will burn and you'll go blind.
You're afraid that one more fevered look in my direction will be the last one it takes to make you jump on me with such lust as to make Casanova weep. I dunno,
Maybe it's not as bad as that.
Maybe what you see makes you remember those long weekends spent by the lakeside, reading poetry and discovering what it means to love yourself again.
Maybe you just take a quick peek to get you through the day even though your heart wants to stare forever.
Hell, it might even be the genuine article:
That be all and end all,
The one true form,
That greatest thing:
Love at first sight.
Or, y'know, maybe you were just looking at that hobo behind me, vomiting into a bin.
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 8:28 PM UTC
No trains in this town
Not the passenger kind, anyhow
Unless you are a hobo
Riding the rail
Singing clickety-clack, clickety-clack
Dreaming of a girl
A pint of Beam
A lost dog named Woof
wearing a red bandana
Warm nights
Sunshine
Sweet Georgia.
r ~ 5/25/14
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 5:19 PM UTC
A special invite i got
To a ballroom party today.
Do I look like a ballroomer,
I'm a filth **** dirt
Hard working man who plows his field.
I'm not meant for some fancy suit dancing.
Unless.
There's a fine poetry lady to dance with me
Then I'll be whatever the invite wants me to be.
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 9:59 AM UTC
I write long stories
Short, medium as well
I write because I think that
I have something to tell
I've met people in my writing
All living in my head
They come to me in daytime
And they speak to me in bed
I don't know if I've met them
There's a chance they may be real
But, they're there inside me living
Letting people know just how they feel
I've singers, painters, dancers
blindmen, kids who like weird things
teachers, stutterers and hobo's
crippled kids and kings
I'm not sure if I've met them
But, by now, I know their names
I know everything about them
And I know, no one is the same
They keep me entertained and
I hope you like them too
I've got to move some boxes in my head
To see if I can find somebody new.
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 8:05 PM UTC
I feel like a comic strip hobo
With no money for deposit
And still I step from slapstick to cement
and hope court jester is enough here
I have come out of the rain
and into your home
Drawn to you
Though there is no pie in your window
No ghostly fingers of your sweet smell
beckoning me in
You make me feel
Like a ghost in a graveyard
Praying for a new harmonica inhale
and exhale
So that this music can sound more like a dance for two
A panic waltz for feet trying to match your grace
And today
Darlin'
There is honey between my teeth
A sweet sound
Our love is backwards
Blacklisted
An elbow torqued and knuckle gutted dry heave halleluja
Arthur Miller would have written a satire about our love
I remember our early conversations
You said you didn't believe in god
I said that he was a fantastic literary device
You said though you didn't believe in god
that people themselves could be godly
I suddenly wondered what you would look like with a jerry curl
"Let's not call it godly," I said
"What then," you said
I don't know
I just know that
Your eyes are like second winds
like Breathcatch memories
of highway carjackings
where you were the one left on the side of the road
The warm summer pillow of your stomach
And the peel of my face away from it
Is sticky like candy
Your stomach is like candy in that way
So is my face
I can be sweet too
Your smile is speechless
like the speakers are speechless
And the music has stopped
and our bodies are still
save for your smile
That quivers like fire
And I am a comic strip hobo
With a bandana backpack
and not much to offer
But I am drawn to you
You make me feel like harmonica breath
You make my mouth feel like honey
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 4:34 PM UTC
City
almost done now,
the fun somehow has left these streets,
but weary feet are tramping home, sick to death and weary to the bone.
Rtoseberry avenue
postcode EC1 and then
it's gone.
Clerkenwell green,
scene of many unpleasantries leaves me and on to St John's street and
more city feet.
Old street not paved with gold except for the elite and more weary feet tramping on.
It's the end of another day and the city always had its way with the few and the lucky ones escaped by bus,
not us,
we went hobo on the city street, tramps and dodgy people, feet so sore and where if when we look to see the Shoreditch box park know we are not far or free of Hackney and the night falls dark across me.
I do
I do
Said twice, but in my heart I knew it wasn't so.
I go because I must've been and seen it all before and though I know it's rotten to the core it draws me like a magnet and I am being trawled by some megaline or dragnet.
The streets beat me down and the pirates in this ***** town have stolen me away,
just another bedtime story written underneath the evening stars and just another ending of the day.
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 7:04 PM UTC
eight, nine
nine, eight, nine
Hello, father, spare me a dime,
and pay the mime with
five landmines;
**** off the bridge if
we've got time.
Appalachian Yeti-man:
set fire to the trashcan.
Call me hobo-stan,
and if the beard fits
grow it.
Show it;
show me the D.
Dentistry,
stay with me;
Explain for free:
"Dichotomy
of the mind"
thoughtfully,
for a time.
Robot-o me,
Mr. Oregato.
Set phasers to ****
stunningly.
Make fun of he
for bad grammar
and intellectuality.
He dumber;
me smarter.
She's aderall;
I'm martyr.
Destroy my innards,
Captain.
I need them not.
She leaves me rot,
and he feeds me Scott.
Scottie doesn't know
that Fiona and me
eat him in a van while
he's sleeping.
Cannibal,
call me Hannibal,
and she's the Jane to my
Tarzan,
pulling the fruits of
my loom.
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 1:40 AM UTC
Judith took me
to the derelict cottage
just off the wood
in the Easter recess
from school
she opened up
the back door
and into the kitchen
with its smell
of damp and decay
it's been empty for years
she said
my sister and I
used to come here
and pretend
it was our own cottage
smells horrible
I said
ignore the smell
she said
pretend it's our
own cottage
and we have
just moved in
after marrying
when did we marry?
I asked
after we left school
she said
smiling
she walked into
a larger room
with wide windows
looking out
onto a large
overgrown garden
we could grow
some of our own food
she said
looking out
the window
I looked at
the hanging wallpaper
and a damp patch
on the ceiling
and our children
could play out there
she said
what children? I asked
when did they come along?
after we married
she said
I don't remember
I said smiling
you will
if you pretend better
she said
moving through
to another room
at the front
I noticed a space
where a picture
must have hung
because it was cleaner
than the rest
of the wall
I like this room
she said
this is where we will sit
and have our TV
and radio
and the children
can sit with us
and we can cuddle them
I nodded playing along
let me show you upstairs
to the bedrooms
she said
so I followed her
up the creaky stairs
her green skirt
swaying as she walked
three bedrooms
she said
one for us
one for our boys
and one for our girls
she stood
in the front bedroom
looking out
over an untidy hedge
onto the road
this is our bedroom
she said
turning around
looking at it all
our bed can go there
she said
pointing to a wall
on the left
and we can have
a dressing table
and dresser
the room was empty
and smelt
over by the right wall
was a pile of ****
some one's been here
and dumped
I said
probably some *****
or hobo
she looked
at the ****
and said
who's dumped
in our bedroom?
I laughed
it isn't our room yet
pretend
she said
I pretended
the **** wasn't there
and we went
into the other bedrooms
and she said
this was where
such and such
will be
and out of the window
the overgrown garden
seemed vast
with an apple orchard
to the left
she touched my hand
and squeezed it
we will be happy here
she said
I looked about
the room years after
the cottage smelt ranker
and she was dead.
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 2:16 AM UTC
I watched you today;
I admired your strutting decadence
Unruly, dishevelled bird of jagged honesty
Ruffled, disrespectful feathers that shine
And reflect your begging, squawking call
You and four of your friends,
Dragged down a helpless potato I
Left out for you;
Pinioned it to the ground
With strutted abandon
Oh bird much maligned;
Bird of ungainly beauty
Hobo, derelict, winged, caller
When you murmur the
Shaking stirred skies
With your flocks,
The noise black swirled and reckless
Never fails to make us catch our breath
That such flock - formed beauty could come
From a ragged kingdom call
Makes my own wings;
Take Flight
Feb 9, 2013
Feb 9, 2013 at 6:01 PM UTC
It was always 1907 Freight car
The Hobo would fall asleep in a freight car yard
Having no place to actually live
But a good heart that wants to give
However, the Hobo happens to be a noun and not an adjective
It was the Holy Smoke Freight yard that caught the Hobo’s attention
But this Hobo’s story is his own presentation
A Hobo broke and having no job
Negative reactions feeling like a mob
The Hobo once had a home
But he was yet all alone
The only thing he would do at this point was to continue to roam
The Hobo was one who always loved to travel
The thought of the entire United States with inspiration in captivation of marvel
So one freight car became the Hobo’s personal home
He travelled everywhere and got rest beyond compare
The Hobo travelled far
He got around without a car
The freight train would normally stop in a town or a nearby city
But numerous people had no pity
However, the Hobo didn’t pity himself
He refused to be like everybody else
He lived and rode the freight train as if it would be a lifetime
But the freight car was the Hobo’s space
A freight train having no problem with the Hobo ride
The Hobo lived his life in being his stride.
Mar 8, 2017
Mar 8, 2017 at 3:30 PM UTC
The city's shrouded in smoke today
smoke coats my mouth, throat & eyes
& I know, I know.
I should be writing in form,
in rhyme - villanelles, sonnets, terza rima
some say there's too much free verse, some say, it's like
everyone's jumped on the bandwagon
yet the most of the magazines still all want rhyme
but sometimes this is just the tune
your heart sings, a broken smile
& the way the images build up
waiting to sail like ships in the harbor
& besides, should we really be writing in villanelles when we are the Mad & I see now, the best minds of our generation, the gifted,
the naked wastrels of the coming apocalypse,
talking to lamp posts, screaming of Ginsberg's Moloch
& the wrongs they did us, yet not destroyed even as we scream locked
behind whitewashed walls in razor-blade glint & halogenic
glow of ECT or walk the empty streets at guerilla dawn
& dusk, bearing the ample weight of our drugged-up minds
like those martyrs of the old Soviet Union & clinging
on to memoirs of our stolen, interrupted, spiritual awakening,
searching for the redemption of litter in this hobo life,
changing countries like some change bed sheets,
others rooted by the invisible chains of familiarity & home, still calling
for the road, oh Kerouac, the fallen angels of tomorrow strung out on sweet
childhood memories & jazz in starved sunsets,
picking themselves up to pick at their scab wounds,
spitting at corrupt governments, bitter with alcohol,
writing poems of unrequited love to poets
far better than us, while Elvis croons
in the background & a Baboushka spits sunflower seeds
in the Russian town of my ancestors
& an open air film plays in black & white
& this colorless summer is nearly over
& they still haven't lifted their sanctions
them with their stone gods of war & psychiatry,
always lining up the next undesirables :
you could be next, yes you with the rainbow eyes
you the believer, you the dreamer of visions
Oh pity them, the children of smoke,
blind to the vagabond, the poet, the lover
lost children always seeking out the same roads
the city is shrouded in smoke
& I wonder if it's not always been there
& if we're living amongst blind men
ones that never read poems
or else how could all this happen
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 11:22 AM UTC