"ketchup" poems
like cellophane wraps hard candy
like ink loves to dry
like hot sauce drenches noodles
like sunrise casts shadows
like band-aids sooth cut flesh
like irons crease linens
like origami folds paper
like water floats boats
like a tempest loves a teapot
like syrup and bananas drench waffles
like spoons love soup
like cats love fish
like french fries love ketchup
like wild girls dance
like a crow loves road ****
like eyes love beauty
like a circle loves a square
like buttered buns fit a bikini
like a kissed mouth hungers for wet lips
like moths love a flame
like dogs love ********
and like ******* hug butts
like howling ******* pulse hearts
like vampires love blood and castles
like dark grapes ferment in bubbling cauldrons
like madness loves a straight jacket
like a ***** loves a ****
and music gets you dancing
like suns fall through cobalt night all smashing diamonds
that's
how i love you
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 2:53 PM UTC
Three Minute Warning
A messenger delivers
A three minute warning
As I lay in bed at 10:30 am
(Resting in preparation for,
not from, our oops, early morning hike).
Breakfast will be ready in 3,
Get your **** in gear or else
It will be cold, I'll be mad,
And you will answer to a
Higher Authority.
No problem cause I already know
All I need is two.
Splash water on my face
Now I'm presentable
enough to the human race,
current company probably won't be happy,
But I ain't telling her, are you?
Shave! You crazed?
It is a three day weekend,
Every day a July Fourth,
Celebrating freedom from the European tyranny,
Of shaving smooth every day!
Splash water on my head, count with me,
Five brush strokes as you can plainly see
Is a classic case of overcompensating
In my geling n' hair stylin'
Brush my teeth, well,
I hope 2 full minutes of rinsing with CVS
Green stuff, mouthwash, will have to suffice.
Blast my deodorant both sides,
Long and strong, wearin' now
My bold blue *** husk of musk,
Cause I am a very considerate fellow
Who happens to really have stunk.
Clean T- shirt and shorts,
Yes, clean underwear too,
Leaves me a whole minute to write this scribble.
My flip flop noises coming down the hallway,
Are the butler announcing our joint arrival,
Me and my poem.
Lest you think this is paean to men
Another grand male boast,
Be advised this ditty be writty
By a man who, while no longer gritty,
Just put jelly on his scrambled eggs
And ketchup on his toast!
Mmmmmmm there might be a poem
Lurking in that too...
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 11:50 AM UTC
**** a polar bear's funky ***
**** a racehorse's **** with Heinz Tomato Ketchup!
**** a donkey's ****** ***
**** a male camel's **** with Hoisen sauce!
**** a cheetah's ****
**** a cheetah's ****
**** a cheetah's ****
**** a cheetah's ****
**** a European bison's smelly ***
**** a woolly mammoth's **** with Miracle Whip!
**** a snow leopard's *** with whip cream!
**** a hyena's spermy ****
**** a cheetah's ****
**** a cheetah's ****
**** a cheetah's ****
**** a cheetah's ****
**** a llama's ****** *******
**** a panda bear's spermy *******
**** a sloth bear's bootyhole!
**** a greyhound's musty *** **********
**** a cheetah's ****
**** a cheetah's ****
**** a cheetah's ****
**** a cheetah's ****
Polaroid, see what develops
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 10:32 PM UTC
3-2-2017 (unknown date of origin)
Something's wrong... you don't belong here.
I said, looking down at the pineapple on my pizza.
I said, looking down at the ketchup on my macaroni.
I said, looking down at the cream of mushroom soup on my meatloaf.
He said, looking down at me and my boyfriend, holding hands in public.
Like I'm a creep. I'm a ******
What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here.
You see there's these things that we learn at the dinner table.
When we're kids we have certain items served to us on our plates.
Whatever doesn't end up there, isn't a part of the discussion.
After all, they say if you don't have a seat at the table, you are likely to be on the menu.
So, when ****** orientation and gender identity aren't seated at the table of childhood, they get served for the first time in unexpected places.
Like an avante garde celebrity chef's designer meal, prepared for critiques by the food bloggers.
They get served in college classroom debates or in dorm rooms with freshman roommates.
They're on the menu in in some movies but served with a side of stereotypes and silly trope toppings.
They get grinded into glitter dust sprinkled on the annual PRIDE Parades like an overly salty seasoning mix.
They're on the menu in workplace diversity trainings, but too little too late - they get lost in the marginalized buffet.
They get served at the oppression Olympics, or actually at the Olympics unwillingly by a journalist who only pretends to eat a well-balanced diet, but really has LGBT food allergies, if you know what I mean.
In reality, these should be staple dishes consumed by commoners, consumed by you and me, consumed by children along with their healthy daily dose of broccoli and cauliflower, squash and zucchini, even eggplant.
They should be in every ******* cookbook with pictures and all different kinds of recipes!
I want every child to have gay on their dinner plate, lesbian lunch, gender nonconforming on the brunch menu, and bisexual breakfast.
And everything in between in the queer spectrum served during snack breaks.
I want every child to look down at their plate and see pineapple pizza and say, gee that looks great!
I love all of the pizza toppings, no matter whether gay or nay.
... except for anchovies, of course.
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 4:28 AM UTC
Does she sit on our bench?
Steal ketchup from your tray as you take her fries?
Does she make your eyes as ***** and moronically wide as they were when they met mine?
Do you play her our song?
Does she lay on your lap and hum along as you strum?
Does she laugh like I do, in the middle of a kiss for no apparent reason, except because she's having fun?
Does she taste like I do?
Like our packs of mints and spearmint gum?
Do you talk to her like you talked to me?
Recite lines from cheesy romantic comedy?
Do you roll around with her behind velvet curtains?
Does she look at you as if she's certain that...
She loves you?
Does she love you?
Do you love her too?
Do you love her like the way I loved you?
Did you love me too?
Did I sit on her bench?
Steal looks from your eyes as you took my fries?
Did you play me her song?
Did I steal her kisses, her laughter, her fun?
Did I taste like her gum?
Steal her cheesy lines?
Roll around with her man behind those curtains?
Did you ever feel as certain that...
You loved me?
Did you love me?
I loved you.
Does she sit on our bench?
Sep 4, 2018
Sep 4, 2018 at 4:33 PM UTC
Millennials at Work and War
Scorn not the snowflake who stands watch for us
Now thrown into the existential struggle
Surrendering their youth and taking up life
They muster in the fields and factories
And in their elders’ undeclared, shadowy wars
Uniformed in an unappreciated sense
Of duty and dignity while scorned by those
Who take their ease upon the couches of sloth
And fling cheap mockery at millennials
Who take up tools and work and love of life
Sometimes to die in deserts still unmapped
While generals dismiss their casualties as light
Despised as snowflakes by keyboard commandos
Who never got closer to any war
Than a John Wayne ketchup-bloody movie.
Some work long double shifts through university
In a sawmill, shop, or fast foodery
Only to be dismissed as slacker layabouts,
But expected to trust those who condemn them
For not being the greatest generation
As defined by those who never served at all
And while being criticized they will grab
A quick cup of coffee for the night shift
Staffing the hospitals and police patrols
That keep their sneering critics alive and safe
They drive the trucks, they man the ships, they work
They drill for oil, these useless millennials
While idlers lounge long in the coffee shops
And YooToob computered jokes about them
Millennials have no time for coloring books
Or comfort animals or revolution
For they are weary with study and work
The best of them make no demands, but, sure
A little respect, hard-earned, would be nice
If only the scripted singer-songwriters
Would pack up the tired old stereotypes
And see millennials as they truly are
But darkness falls – they must go back to work
On the eleven-seven, the graveyard shift
They do not burn draft cards or Medicare cards
Instead through work they illuminate this world
And build it up with continued sacrifice
Scorn not the snowflake who stands watch for us
Dec 13, 2016
Dec 13, 2016 at 4:39 PM UTC
Cake
You can eat it too!
My frying pan
Is half empty
Hate me
Because I am good
No!
Because I am great!
Michelan Stars
Trips to Mars
Candy bars
Mason jars
Drunk I am
Said the can
To the packet
Of ketchup
Baker's square
I worked there
Line cook nook
Splatters shook!
The kitchen man
Burns the water
The ******** fan
Yearns for slaughter
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 12:26 AM UTC
She don't like her eggs all runny
she thinks crossin' her legs is funny
she looks down her nose at money
She gets it on like the Easter bunny
she's my baby
I'm her honey
Never Gonna Let Her Go
He ain't got laid in a
Month of Sundays
I caught him once
and he was sniffin' my ******
he ain't too sharp but he gets things done drinks beer like it's oxygen
and he's my baby
I'm his honey
Never gonna let him go
In Spite of Ourselves
we'll end up sitting on a rainbow
Against All Odds
honey were the big door prize
We're going to spite our noses
right off of our faces
there won't be nothin'
but a big ol' Hearts
dancin' in our eyes
she thinks all my jokes are corny
convict movies make her *****
she likes ketchup with her scrambled eggs swears like a sailor when
she shaves her legs
she takes a lickin'
she keeps on tickin'
I'm never going to let her go
He's got more ***** than
A Big Brass Monkey
he's a whacked-out ******
and a love bug ******
Sly as a fox
crazy as a loon
when payday comes
he's howlin' at the moon
he is my baby
and I don't mean maybe
I'm never going to let him go
In Spite of Ourselves
we'll end up sittin' on a rainbow
Against All Odds
honey were the big door prize
we're going to spite our noses
right off of our faces
there won't be nothing
but big ol' Hearts
dancin' in our eyes
In Spite of Ourselves
Written by John Prime
Cherie Nolan- A favorite wedding tune
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 9:35 PM UTC
Call yourself a friend of mine,
Forcing me to “neck” beer and wine?
Lovingly mixed with ***** and gin,
And dash of ketchup added in,
Wasabi for that extra kick -
The whole thing just makes me sick!
It’s not fun or cool or clever,
But a study in peer pressure,
Present in the world we live in,
Where for a guy or girl to “give in”,
Is expected for their reputation.
But what kind of expectation,
Is encouraged sado-masochism?
A concept likely to cause a schism,
For those who didn’t use their head,
And unsurprisingly now are dead.
I am sure as you will surely see,
And the poet Dylan would agree,
That as long as you ignore
The deaths of one, two three and four
How many, many, many more,
Are needed til we scream and cry?
“We caused too many youths to die!”
And for what cause? Acceptance.
Whose loss is needed for our repentance?
It’s all well acting free and wild,
But each of us is someone’s child -
Whose loss would surely cause sadness,
Hurt and pain and grief and madness?
And stomaching death is much harder
Than soap or dirt or grease or lard or
Whatever miscellaneous things
This activity inevitably brings.
Just saying “no” might make you quiver
But trust me; it’s better for your liver -
And living x years sans hurt or maim
Is worth > than 15 minutes of fame.
So do the maths before you do it -
Or else I bet you’ll likely rue it!
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 10:34 AM UTC
You know how the Lorax spoke for the trees? I feel the need to speak for my four-year-old niece. Not because she can't speak -- she can and rarely stops once she starts -- but because there are certain concepts time has yet to grant her. So until time does, I got you covered, Lucy.
Mommy,
you call it the "poetry" of a child's sleep,
ohh 'n ahh, she's so, so sweet,
I call it child's "pose." Not the yoga neither.
I'm posing and rolling and cooing
biding time until you're tripping on the
Ambien retreating to a dream.
You're only reprieve.
'Cause when your *** is asleep,
I be mixing up the Play-doh,
red and yellow, black and white,
'till it's 50 shades of brown, alright?
Dirt pies from the backyard,
put 'em by the brownies
in the morning world-weary in your pajamys
Slip-up, slip-up, I smell a slip-up.
Ain't a direct threat, Queen Buttercup
because you'd just say, "I ain't afraid of you, shorty."
Blood flow. Blood slow. Simmering, saucy.
Mommy, looking down skyscraper balcony.
May I remind, a giant ain't bringing down Manhattan,
It's that little, wayward wrecking ball, eh Captain?
Over my shoulder, drinking from a thermos --
stumble in your step mean you gettin' nervous--
hand me piece of paper and two crayons
macaroni orange and swamp water liaisons
these coloring sheets are so bourgeoisie.
These coloring sheets are so bourgeoisie.
"Color outside the lines, eh Lucy?
don't play by the rules," my Mommy say,
but I been around long enough to know dat
'dese rules pay. Outside the lines? Is just uh sloppy.
Been outside the club in front of the line
with my fellow shawties.
Slip-up, slip-up, I smell a slip-up.
Ain't a direct threat, Queen Buttercup
because you'd just say, "I ain't afraid of you, shorty."
Blood flow. Blood slow. Simmering, saucy.
Mommy, looking down skyscraper balcony.
May I remind, a giant ain't bringing down Manhattan,
It's that little, wayward wrecking ball, eh Captain?
Chicken and fries three meals-a-day.
Chocolate milk three meals-a-day.
Tricycle boys three wheels away.
Hands on your hips can't make me stay.
Lego blocks lodged in your skull.
I've hid the Advil. The Dayquil. Drank the Nyquil though.
Alright, alright, time to get confessional.
All my ***** accidents are intentional.
I melt my own Barbies to feel alive.
Snort glue sticks just to get hella high.
Mommy, you've got a messy ketchup face.
Mommy, you've got spiders in your hair.
Mommy, you've got ****** on your pants.
Ha. Ha.
Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. Bi-otch.
Blood flow. Blood slow. Simmering, saucy.
Mommy, looking down skyscraper balcony.
May I remind, a giant ain't bringing down Manhattan,
It's that little, wayward wrecking ball, eh Captain?
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 7:29 PM UTC
we're on a break,
meaning we catharsis ****
often in public places,
often with an edge of violence,
much like the session in the
family restroom, here at
Big Daddy's Bar-B-Que (travesty, travesty).
still waiting for Em to to finish "tidying up."
and the brisket is salty.
or it's the leftovers from her forehead.
she should have cut her fingernails.
thinking of a way to hide the blood trails
running wild on the back of my t-shirt.
catharsis, she says. it's healthy, she says.
Elvis croons over the arcane stereo system
and a white-haired woman with gelatinous
arms taps her fingers on the tabletop along
to "Teddy Bear."
the waitress keeps a hawk's eye on my
half-empty/half-full glass of water.
and I'm afraid to take a drink.
here comes Em. she's an athlete. and we're on a break,
meaning we don't see each other's parents.
don't nod and listen.
and don't say things like, "oh yeah, your sister Sarah. how's she?"
hallelujah, hallelujah. Em played point guard in high school.
her last official sporting endeavor. but twenty minutes ago
she told me to look up a complicated position
via iKamastutra on my phone
because she's an athlete, and I'd be "amazed at what
this
machine [her body]
can do."
but I hate when she says **** like that.
catering to an I'm-almost-certain-peg
of my fantasy. harder, harder
and before I finish, she insists on
swallowing
and
it makes me uncomfortable
but
we're on break, and to argue
would be a crucifixion to this "vacation."
I think about Elvis.
and wonder if any
woman is still alive that
swallowed his ***
and when it's down
to just one, does that mean
anything?
"well that was fun," Em says.
her mascara wasted.
the brisket is salty.
I take a generous drink of water.
I hear the sound of breaking glass.
the waitress has busted
a bottle of ketchup in her
rush to refill my 2/3rds empty cup.
"mazel tov," I say.
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 7:57 PM UTC
You have stars in your hands
and you hold them like grenades.
The boats tattooed on your thighs
spread out like finger placements of the G major chord.
Synthetic drugs make chains
tying your first and second fingers
around the mechanically rolled paper,
canvasing your throat like too much sea water,
each breath as rough as the veins in your arms.
Close your eyes
there’s pollen in the air
spread out like imperfections on the skin of an apple.
Solar countries keep foreign coins
sewed into their cotton sails,
they put their money into the navy.
You have a comet in your circulatory system
leaving bright spots under your skin
a reminder to gather the sunshine back under your eyelashes.
Hand soap in ketchup packets
make bubble bath islands
and unhappy lips.
You’re as talkative as a poem and
as expensive as a poppy
with homemade constellations on your back,
staining your lumbar muscles with cherries.
I can’t wash off your fingerprints
with my favourite shampoo.
I’ll swim across the Georgia Strait,
dodge your dinghies and
make a home in handmade ships
where I’ll practice erasing scars from my arms
and washing the soap from my hair.
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 5:04 PM UTC
The youth
Youth is weird,
Somewhat interesting.
An adult pop rock mix
With child soda pop.
Youth is Coca-Cola,
Marlboro, whiskey and energy,
The eternal monologue of life,
ID number, property tax and Netflix.
Youth is John Lennon,
Che, Fidel and Hendrix,
Contemporary history,
ancient and medieval history.
Youth is pants ripped jeans,
Popsicle, lollipop, painted face,
Chicle, coffee and french fries,
Point G, miniskirt and condoms.
Youth is the Dalai Lama,
Techno, rave and rasta,
Drugs, drops and guitar,
Punk, samba and hopefully that-fall.
Youth is the opposite of the opposite,
It's a Friday at midnight,
Mustard, ketchup and mayonnaise,
X-salad, ham and cheese sandwich and X-men.
Youth is D-Day,
Vietnam, Hiroshima and Nagasaki,
Testosterone, Woodstock and Waterloo,
Afghanistan, TPM and MTV.
Youth is a pressure cooker,
Isis, Syria, sukiyaki,
Anonymous, Al Qaeda, rice and beans,
Genesis, Revelation and mint candy.
Youth is weird,
Somewhat interesting.
An adult pop rock mix
With child soda pop.
May 10, 2016
May 10, 2016 at 7:25 AM UTC
Giraffes have their heads in the tops of trees, merrily munching
great big beautiful eyes and just the cutest faces, heads way up there in the clearest rarefied atmosphere
what a stretch that must have been for evolution, millions of prototypes,
and then the finished article, just as well we do not eat them, can't imagine eating a Giraffe burger with ketchup and fries.
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 6:02 AM UTC
attachment is worse
than the aftertaste
of a disgusting drink
like mixing ketchup
with mustard
such a bad mix
makes you
want to
throw
up
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 8:17 AM UTC
Sleep.
Sleep child,
til' the light overpowers the darkness inside,
where I secretly cried.
I secretly tried,
but no one would guess,
and I never put my cards face up.
It's only ketchup.
Used to patch up,
the cut and scratch ups,
caused by the dull
of my pencil,
and my soul.
I fell,
but I dragged myself up again,
back into my daily skin,
and I'm that burden.
That one whose not fully there,
told by everyone, "you just don't care",
with a random shudder scare.
The words I despise you all think,
even the shrink,
and it drowns me to the sink.
I'm that disaster,
everyone's after,
maniacal laughter.
"Am I losing my mind?"
"Is this mind really mine?"
"Would dying be fine?"
I'm not so refined :)
I can see the things in perfect imagery,
things I don't want to see,
always worried everyone hates me.
I can't see,
I'm not me,
I'm not even a somebody.
Maybe inside is some other ghost,
I'm the host,
at my death let's just have a toast.
Til' death do we part,
take it as a new start,
buy the roses to my grave from walmart.
I didn't think I mattered anyways,
sleeping through these pass-me-by days,
my mind playing simon says.
I always secretly try,
but I am still I,
and now simon says ".....goodbye."
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 9:32 PM UTC
I'm surprised we're having a picnic on the east wing!
Our company almost never gives us anything!
Underpaid with no benefits makes this picnic even better
To think I was going to give in my resignation letter
With so many hamburgers, hot dogs, and more,
It's a fast food restaurant galore!
A table packed full with yummies.
Today, a lot of beef will be in tummies.
People reaching for their plates
The caterers come out of their waits
One by one, they serve each voracious goer
For a pay that probably couldn't get any lower
Janice comes, with her broken polish and nails
And a scream a joy echos out like whales
She's so drunk, oh my god haha she's so wired
It's the unpaid overtime or another threat of being fired
Poor thing... we finish our girl talk
and problems on my mind, I begin to walk
Feeling my appetite begin to poke me,
I bite into my hamburger with resounding glee
Nipping the bread, it's fluff presses against my lips
I close my eyes, as my senses go in dips
The precious aroma of divine baked bread
As my tongue and bun are set to wed.
Each bud met with delicious waters of steak
The ketchup creating a dreamy, saucy lake
Scrumptious, delicious
Incredible, nutritious...?
It doesn't matter, I've met my goal
And the taste, goodness it makes my mind roll
Forgetting everything while I finish the rest
Golly, this food is the best
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 3:52 PM UTC
Well Done.
She said, but don't ***** it up. Its a start.
How could I?
Your sauciness drove right thru my heart.
Will you please be my bottom bun?
Baby, you're my seed number one.
Sesame wants Sesayou
Tardy to your selfworth day party
Salty, and peppered with hardy haught looks
I've overcooked this simple match up
Maybe baby I'm plain ketchup.
Feb 23, 2018
Feb 23, 2018 at 4:48 PM UTC
Needle in the hay stack
The spin of the weather vane
I took a drink of you
And felt heavy to the touch
With my last bit of strength
I split the seed coat
Topsoil coaxing me
*Come here, young one
Come here*
Blue
The first color I have ever known
In awe I watch as birds fly over
Like painted die-cast wind-up toys
The warmth fills me to the brim
Free among unbroken hills
Neither late nor early
But still
On time with the cosmic dance of fire color rain
Earthquake Heartache Lust and pitty
I took a drink of you and blooms sprout from my chest cavity
Sunlight flooding protons upon the hillside
Into my eyes smiling
*A nap on the grass until half-past two
As if I don't have work to do
Important things come and go
They melt away as winter snow
Drink you deeply from life's river
Not even death can make it bitter
**** Erectus
In three piece suit
Dead in a box
Maggot food
A veritable
Carrion drive thru
Just as fate would have it
Do you need
Some
Ketchup packets?*
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 3:13 PM UTC
When things were going great
we'd eat transcendental dinners,
we'd take livers
in rainbow saucers
and ladle them
in tartar sauce
until our mouths
were full of salt,
sometimes we'd go to Thai China
and make interstellar fighters
out of the wise guts
of
cream-colored Starships.
But the nights when we went
to Burger King were the greatest,
we'd have simple dinners:
99 cent burgers
and fries like elephant ears,
we'd sit in our booth
in the corner,
you farting ketchup
out of like
twenty packets
into a red **** pile,
and I farted
like
twenty farts
out of my ***
but I like
simple things;
they are natural
even if they don't sound
that way.
Feb 9, 2012
Feb 9, 2012 at 12:27 AM UTC
Salt+Pepper=Vinegar-Ketchup-Barbeque-Sour Cream+Onions
Mint+Lime=OneTequilaTwoTequilaThreeTequilaFloor
Bread+Mornings=Buttered Side+Lands Down
Potatoes+Oil=Burgers+Wings+Club Sandwiches
Milk+Chocolate=Nostalgia+Marshmallows
Freezer+Yoghurt-Regrets=Dissatisfaction
Coffee+Liqueur=Saturday Night=OJ+Champagne=Sunday Morning
Apr 5, 2012
Apr 5, 2012 at 12:30 AM UTC
I walked past my pantry
Late one Friday night
To the sounds of what appeared to be
The goings on of a party inside
I grabbed a hold the latches
Swung wide open the door
With absolutely no earthly idea
Of what was soon in store
Colorful lights were flashing
Somewhere in the back
I moved aside the ketchup and mayo
To see where it was at
I took out the pickles and saltine's
So I could better see
What all the commotion was inside
Of my food pantry
That's when I saw the flashing lights
Inside the jar of Nutella
I picked it up right away
Me being a some what curious fella
As I held it at eye level
It vibrated in my hands
In what felt like a driving rhythm
From a 70's Disco band
Can't say I wasn't nervous
As I loosened up the lid
No telling what was going on inside
What dangers lay ahead
With both hands slightly shaking
I removed the rounded top
There was a party in the making
And it was going on non stop
The Nutella had it's boogie on
Or if you prefer, it's groove
Whatever you wish to call it
A party was the mood
There was a strobe light and confetti
Even a tiny Disco ball
As I gazed over the edge of the jar
I saw banners wall to wall
I guess you could say Nutella
Is quite the party treat
That may cost you at the grocery store
But once home the cover charge is free
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 8:22 AM UTC