"larder" poems
T'was the night before Christmas
And with everything done
The kids were all dreaming
Of Christmas Day fun
The tree was completed
We had wrapped all the toys
When from the basement below
We heard a faint noise
I sprung from the couch
Took off down the stairs
On my way through the kitchen
I tripped on two chairs
I slid down the staircase
To the base of my house
And there with my shortbreads
Was a ****** great mouse
My wife followed close
And then she let out a shriek
She saw me and the mouse
And she started to freak
He nibbled the cookie
and he ran past my nose
right down my torso
Then he stopped at my toes
My wife was still screaming
The mouse didn't care
He continued his running
On under the stairs
I crawled to my workshop
Grabbed the first thing I found
A mallet for pounding
That mouse in the ground
I limped to the staircase
And I swung at the wall
I again lost my balance
And again, I did fall
I put two holes in the riser
Two more in the tread
I was gonna keep swinging
Till that mouse was dead
I broke the one lightbulb
That lit up the room
Now I was worried
I couldn't see...found the broom
I stepped on one end
Squared my self in the sack
I then heard a noise
The mouse had come back
I heard his slight skitter
As he went past my feet
He was off to the larder
For more stuff to eat
I went back to the workshop
Tripping at least three more times
I would finish this mouse
He would pay for his crimes
I grabbed for a lighter
And my large propane torch
I would hunt down this mouse
And his **** I would scorch
I lit up the propane
And I aimed at the stairs
It caught light on the carpet
And I burnt both those chairs
The flames went on upward
The stairs were quite dry
I laughed in hysterics
That **** mouse would fry
My wife had recovered
And decided to run
but, after seeing the flames
She phoned up 9 1 1
The mouse left the building
In fact, he never was found
The house burned in seconds
It collapsed to the ground
And through the whole scene
I just stood there and laughed
At the wreckage before me
And I thought, **** I'm daft
I had ruined our Christmas
And I burned down our house
Over a **** shortbread cookie
And one little mouse
The kids, they got out
And were wrapped up and warm
While I was creating
My own perfect storm
The gifts were all ruined
The house ...all consumed
And over my head
One large question loomed
If I had gone for the shotgun
And shot at the mouse
Would I be still having Christmas
And would I still have a house
My wife came on over
And she gave me a swat
She said "look what you've done"
"you great stupid ****
I learned a great lesson
and folks ...it is that
Once I rebuild
I will then buy a cat!!!
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 5:01 PM UTC
Winter, From Summer
Winter's kiss reveals
barren nests in arbored rests
summer's love conceals
Winter's veil behests
larder meals in burrowed fields
summer's sleep divests
Summer, From Winter
Summer's hand repeals
frigid tests of nature's guests
winter's grasp unseals
Summer's warmth invests
life's ordeals on newborn squeals
winter's chill arrests
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 8:40 AM UTC
The *** Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat:
If you offer him pheasant he would rather have grouse.
If you put him in a house he would much prefer a flat,
If you put him in a flat then he’d rather have a house.
If you set him on a mouse then he only wants a rat,
If you set him on a rat then he’d rather chase a mouse.
Yes the *** Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat—
And there isn’t any call for me to shout it:
For he will do
As he do do
And there’s no doing anything about it!
The *** Tum Tugger is a terrible bore:
When you let him in, then he wants to be out;
He’s always on the wrong side of every door,
And as soon as he’s at home, then he’d like to get about.
He likes to lie in the bureau drawer,
But he makes such a fuss if he can’t get out.
Yes the *** Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat—
And there isn’t any use for you to doubt it:
For he will do
As he do do
And there’s no doing anything about it!
The *** Tum Tugger is a curious beast:
His disobliging ways are a matter of habit.
If you offer him fish then he always wants a feast;
When there isn’t any fish then he won’t eat rabbit.
If you offer him cream then he sniffs and sneers,
For he only likes what he finds for himself;
So you’ll catch him in it right up to the ears,
If you put it away on the larder shelf.
The *** Tum Tugger is artful and knowing,
The *** Tum Tugger doesn’t care for a cuddle;
But he’ll leap on your lap in the middle of your sewing,
For there’s nothing he enjoys like a horrible muddle.
Yes the *** Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat—
And there isn’t any need for me to spout it:
For he will do
As he do do
And theres no doing anything about it!
7.3k
Sitting past the reeds
upon a willow tree
the kingfisher surveys
his watery larder
With keen polaroid eyes
a victim he spies
and measuring distance
he makes his next move
A flicker in thought
his blue metallic wings
now do go into action
such a beautiful thing
Down from the branches
wings folded back
he darts into the stream
by the banks waters edge
The minnow that was hunting
has now become the hunted
and out of crystal waters
the kingfisher is victorious
Out of the stream
with feathers to preen
after a hearty fill
of minnow and bream
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 8:53 PM UTC
Macavity’s a Mystery Cat: he’s called the Hidden Paw—
For he’s the master criminal who can defy the Law.
He’s the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad’s despair:
For when they reach the scene of crime—Macavity’s not there!
Macavity, Macavity, there’s no on like Macavity,
He’s broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.
His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare,
And when you reach the scene of crime—Macavity’s not there!
You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air—
But I tell you once and once again, Macavity’s not there!
Macavity’s a ginger cat, he’s very tall and thin;
You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.
His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly doomed;
His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed.
He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake;
And when you think he’s half asleep, he’s always wide awake.
Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macavity,
For he’s a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.
You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square—
But when a crime’s discovered, then Macavity’s not there!
He’s outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.)
And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard’s.
And when the larder’s looted, or the jewel-case is rifled,
Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke’s been stifled,
Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair—
Ay, there’s the wonder of the thing! Macavity’s not there!
And when the Foreign Office finds a Treaty’s gone astray,
Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way,
There may be a scap of paper in the hall or on the stair—
But it’s useless of investigate—Macavity’s not there!
And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say:
“It must have been Macavity!”—but he’s a mile away.
You’ll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumbs,
Or engaged in doing complicated long division sums.
Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macacity,
There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity.
He always has an alibit, or one or two to spare:
And whatever time the deed took place—MACAVITY WASN’T THERE!
And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known
(I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone)
Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the time
Just controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime!
5k
"CALL down the hawk from the air;
Let him be hooded or caged
Till the yellow eye has grown mild,
For larder and spit are bare,
The old cook enraged,
The scullion gone wild.'
"I will not be clapped in a hood,
Nor a cage, nor alight upon wrist,
Now I have learnt to be proud
Hovering over the wood
In the broken mist
Or tumbling cloud.'
"What tumbling cloud did you cleave,
Yellow-eyed hawk of the mind,
Last evening? that I, who had sat
Dumbfounded before a knave,
Should give to my friend
A pretence of wit.'
3.2k
1561
No Brigadier throughout the Year
So civic as the Jay—
A Neighbor and a Warrior too
With shrill felicity
Pursuing Winds that censure us
A February Day,
The Brother of the Universe
Was never blown away—
The Snow and he are intimate—
I’ve often seem them play
When Heaven looked upon us all
With such severity
I felt apology were due
To an insulted sky
Whose pompous frown was Nutriment
To their Temerity—
The Pillow of this daring Head
Is pungent Evergreens—
His Larder—terse and Militant—
Unknown—refreshing things—
His Character—a Tonic—
His future—a Dispute—
Unfair an Immortality
That leaves this Neighbor out—
3k
I stood in line
to be weighed
in the bathroom
of the nursing home
Anne crutched herself
behind me
you haven't
got a chance in hell
of winning
that chocolate bar Kid
she said
I've seen more meat
on a butcher's pencil
stuck behind his ear
might win
I said
might fly
she said
the kid in front of me
got on
the green metal scales
and the nun
moved the weight
along the top
not you Malcolm
she said
the kid got off sulkily
I got on the scales
and the nun
moved the weight
I looked at her
black and white
headdress
her pinched features
not you Benny
she said
I got off
and walked away
Anne awkwardly
got on the scales
holding herself
on her one leg
the stump
of the other
hanging there
best so far Anne
the nun said
told you Kid
you didn't
have a chance
guess not
I said
as she crutched herself
along side of me
not to worry
if I get the choco bar
I’ll give you
a quarter for being
a good friend
no other
in this **** hole
gets a look in
we went along
to our rooms
come in Kid
she said
I hesitated
come in
I want to
ask you something
I stood swaying
uncertain
what if
one of the nuns
comes along?
what if I don't give you
quarter of the choc bar?
she said
I followed her in
to the girls dorm
no one else
was there
just she and me
she closed the door
with her backside
right Kid
I want you
to do me
a favour
favour?
I said
sensing uncertainty
hit my gut
yes I want you
to sneak along
to the kitchen tonight
and liberate
some biscuits
liberate?
I said
biscuits?
yes you know
what biscuits are
don't you
those hard things
with cream in the middle
or chocolate
on one side
I know what biscuits are
I said
but what do you mean
liberate?
take some
from the big tin
they have
on the shelf
in larder
take?
I said
you mean steal?
steal
take
liberate
whatever word
you want
to use Kid
what if I get caught?
don't get caught
but what if I do?
Anne sighed
sat on the edge
of her bed
I thought you
were someone
I could rely on Kid
not some cowardly custard
yellow belly
I looked
at her leg stump
sticking out
the other leg
reached to the floor
if you're really good
I’ll let you touch
my stump
she said
no need
I said
I'll try tonight
sneak down
after lights out
good Kid
she said
she took my right hand
and lay it
on the stump
and held it there
it felt warm
and soft
she let my hand go
good huh?
wish the rest
was there
she said
off you go
and don't get caught
I nodded
and backed out
of the room
seeing her cover
the stump
with her dress
and smile
see you
I said
you bet
she said
I walked away
thinking
of the big steal
of biscuits
unthought through
by my 10 year old brain
as yet.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 12:49 PM UTC
I've had mountain oyster, and pigs feet, in stew
tasted chocolate bugs, and was that cheese, or glue?
I may have had cat, and dog, in a Mexican venue
frog legs, goat and snake, just to name a few
If it walks or crawls, or makes a nest or den
you can rest assured, it's only where, and when
God made animals of meat, as is every single hen
captured, cleaned, BBQ'd, eaten by women, children, men
Omnivores, world's best, eating every way, and thing
food up in the larder, of bread and wine, to sing
don't have to tell me what it is, if it has legs, or wings
just put it on the table, tasting all, that nature brings
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 11:14 AM UTC
welcome to the world
milk larder
atlas killer
welcome to the universal mind
your presence has not been anticipated
no bells rung at your birth
but the cosmos shook about a
nanometer
from the force of your creation
spectacular birth even if your arm
is weak
doubtless your good looks will make up the rest
...
no luck there?
you're the down-trodden,
the eclipsed lantern,
the face in odd angles,
wearing the weight of someone's unconditional
..
Lust
but deep in your caved chest
your heart is beating the tribal song
of a jet launching for the sky
the way you felt when you switched wheat
for rye
the turn in your cerebrum going from gluten
to sigh.
but even as the birds coast beside
your jet-stream heart strings
I see your hesitation glistening
shivering at the start line from your magnum opus
and you are shattered
growling lioness courage running from the cannon
exhaust that running lion
until she's panting on her back
sweating vapor into the atmosphere
and you remember that all along
you have been the soulmate of the intangible
you just forgot
and you forgot again.
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 4:19 PM UTC
you cannot finish need.
it fiends in wretched globes of dwarf
swelling to tremendous steam
a Bacchanal of vineyard borscht
a moonlit morsel of demolished dreams...
we serve at the pleasure of the absurd
gilding shadows with clay confetti
and the nictitating membranes of blue crocodiles.
and blank verse.
felling the Yggdrasil, by all means; you maraud the larder
in the night kitchen; nicking blackbird-pies and pinky-russet salamanders
[ the loose farthing ] and the hard liquor... all gone now
your potato sack, rakishly slung from the shoulders of an Atlas, entitled ' Promised Land; betrayed '.
a new map shrugging off old kings from dead valleys
revealing the hour of your worthless estate,
in-lieu of the boundaries of your lost holdings. unhappily -
you inherit the unripe peach
in a hound's mouth.
you slouch rough, slowly
to your beast
of a couch:
there, to remain unholy and due South.
there, to remain unknowing
by all account.
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 10:13 PM UTC
when I go
it will be
impossibly late
and I’ll leave you
not multi-talented bars
or pairs of randy ingots
itching to procreate
in a splendid explosion
of golden delight
what I’ll leave you is
a stale-air larder
filled just this once
by dully packaged thoughts
and duller feelings
when I have them
they could only couple
if enlivened with musical prodding
or the sigh effecting benefits
from hands full of mood-altering
pharmaceuticals
so please yourself instead
and don’t
put them to any use
bury them deep
better yet
pile them high on Pyrrhic pyres
where the gathering scorch will send
down leaden puddles
while precious platinum curls rise
up to trickle trickster tears
my greatest possible reward
Sep 3, 2010
Sep 3, 2010 at 8:54 AM UTC
651
So much Summer
Me for showing
Illegitimate—
Would a Smile’s minute bestowing
Too exorbitant
To the Lady
With the Guinea
Look—if She should know
Crumb of Mine
A Robin’s Larder
Would suffice to stow—
2.1k
They stalk their prey in the long grass
eyes keen on their would be larder
crouching ready to spring
feline sisters Serengeti hardware
The sun beats down on their perfect forms
as they move into position
the hunt is on
for the Serengeti hardware
A Zebra walks unknowingly
into their line of sight
now it is marked for the ****
they leap into action the Serengeti hardware
Claws tear at ****
zebra cries in distress
a sister bites at its throat
and soon it will be dead
This is the
Serengeti Hardware
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 3:58 AM UTC
Under the spread hazel's winter
umbrella hung with pale catkins
pulling at a black bin liner rubble
spilled, a little toad tumbles free
from under in turmoil of warty limbs.
A toad in this garden where is no pond
found a moist pocket of plastic pleats
and a larder of wood lice in the rotted
pile sits on my palm calm as a buddha
thoughtless, yellow-eyed, unidentified.
Later, returning for forgotten secateurs
he drifts down in the water *** I let in
to the ground, trailing a bubble stream,
an olive green indifferent nature god.
The lordly stars sustain his crawlspace.
Jun 4, 2011
Jun 4, 2011 at 2:12 AM UTC
I know this little puppy,
Or maybe he’s a guppy,
As he likes to take to water,
Like rav’nous rats a larder.
I am compelled to mention,
While he seems to seek attention,
Could not he be aware,
How his actions help him fair?
Does he bury furry friends,
So they don’t obstruct his end?
Is a pat on the head that needed?
Or is causality unheeded?
As this ******* of a fish and mutt,
Is capable of kindness but,
Only when it drowns those near,
Of shadowing his own career.
Mar 6, 2010
Mar 6, 2010 at 7:38 PM UTC
A man named Skinner came to dinner,
with knife poised to attack any so-called sinner,
where did his acerbic attitude come from I wonder,
it was not fair that he should cast any man asunder.
To be frank, he was the one who should work harder,
then, there may be more pleasantries stocked in his larder,
perhaps a change of heart is beyond some of us,
but if you don't - we won't let you on the bus.
We won't let you have any credibility,
until you gain some compassion and humility,
put your silly knife away described as fun,
otherwise we'll lock you up in the Tower of London.
You don't deserve accolades with your set of blades,
We won't waste our time as your pathetic memory fades.
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 2:39 PM UTC
SO WHAT.
Deal with it. It won't stop
probably so deal with it or
haha nevermind silly, just
move on to something else.
Who gives a **** about headphones
advertisements in the middle of
hypnotizing music from her stores?
The larder is – behind that door – you
can't enter no matter how hard you
try, that is music there. There's nothing
physical, no floors no walls no just music and you can open the door.
What you hear won't make sense and it will blot out all other
senses but there she is striding past me and walks
inside.
because that's where she belongs. This is not my comprehension. In she went,
and I will never see her again but hear her as she has infiltrated the
realm of organized sound to contribute to the beautiful lustful chaos. She
has only just begun, I realize. There is no end, though there was a beginning;
she has fractured infinity casually as sipping water from tea cups in faux-innocent
sunlight filtered through a hangover on something you're pretty sure was called a
veranda but that's more a polite curiosity than a serious one so you content yourself to take in
this retrospectively invented image of her in Ray Bans and anything but pants with her scars
embossed and tattoos in a rare moment of silence preceding the moment of sound where she asks
why you're looking at her like that, and you hadn't realized you'd done it again, shifted to the
future you reflecting on the present moment to grasp the intangible, to outline the undefined to
alter the fixed and whatever other paradoxes you happen to be causing at the time because you've
accidentally, temporarily transcended again, so you're really just along for the ride with your
pretty little thoughts of her and this veranda or whatever while she's smoking a cigarette you
offered her so enjoy it while it lasts. Whatever you do, enjoy it while it lasts, and go easy on
yourself, you're just a kid after all, remember. Remember. and don't forget
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 10:17 PM UTC
And you, stranger, ask
why my wife left me
there was no food in the larder
the kids were hungry
Daisy wrote a note when she left
love can't subsist without money
I'm taking the kids away for good
your rich friend Henry I'll marry
May 14, 2018
May 14, 2018 at 11:02 PM UTC
*my house shoes shuffle my gait across linoleum earth
and a thin layer of bisquick and dander. last night's raid
on the larder and this morning's coffee quest, collide
in the long slant shadows of a slow moving star, on the rise
like a yellow souffle with a nuclear heart.
i imagine a vertical carousel, grinding 'round the house
of my muffins and octane. dragging pin lights and globes
over the horizon... marching an infinite parade of other worlds
above my crust of stone and blue oceans, crashing a thousand miles
from my domain... i envision the void on a string of pearls
and deep sea horses galloping 'cross the gap...
i toss sugar into a ceramic misadventure from the state fair
and sip remarkable from the lip
of space. and consume*.
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 9:18 AM UTC
Water, as most of you will know,
Has the chemical formula H2O.
Now this essential liquid is, as well,
In its natural form devoid of smell,
And also in its pure state
It's clear and clean and really great,
For keeping living things alive,
As without it nothing can survive.
Yes it really is such magic stuff,
Because without it things are really tough,
And it often makes me stop and think
Each time I pour myself a drink.
What would I do if it all dried up?
Turn on the tap, but an empty cup.
Nothing from the pipes emanating,
Panic, as I'm not used to waiting.
This is not how it is for me
I live where rain falls frequently,
And I can drink, shower and bathe too
As often as I'm wanting to.
But in other parts it rains only rarely,
And people there, well they can barely
Find enough water for their needs,
To drink, to wash, to nurture seeds.
For them life is infinitely harder
They've learned to live with an empty larder,
And simple hygiene is so hard to achieve
When the detritus of living, they have to leave,
Lying, rotting, stinking on the surface all around
Polluting any water source in the ground.
Because of the extreme poverty of these 'others',
On my TV screen I have seen the faces of the mothers,
Whose children died because there has never been
Access to water which is drinkable and clean.
Yes, something that we take for granted,
Because we were born, where we were planted!
Tom Higgins
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 12:32 PM UTC
Pots, pans and plates
Pots, pans
And the larder
A ghost house
Trembling
The larder
Stocked with oats and rice
Pots
And when it is time to cook
And then the gas stove is lit for
A feast
Pots, pans and plates
- Rows of jars line
The windowsill
Preserves, chutneys, jams
Preserves, chutneys
- and mango atchar
That reminds me
Of India
Oh! Lord Gandhi!
Mar 12, 2021
Mar 12, 2021 at 4:43 AM UTC
Look what you've done!
double the serving size of torment
the battle has begun
hunger pangs won't relent
another helping: slashes of lament
I'd rather be empty
necessary rations, I resent
beneficial to you, poisonous to me
drifting through the days, rugged debris
I've become a lunchroom paralytic
ignore me, mediocre bourgeoisie
not a stomach, but a heart granitic
I ask for seconds - of love, not larder
For once, I feel full. Incomparable ardor.
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 12:55 AM UTC
Let’s play Name That Goon.
How many can you get right?
Someone you see every day
In the news, in plain sight.
The first one looks very much
Like a troll doll but larger.
He brags about how much
Money he has in his larder.
But, his blather does not
Include many discernable facts.
He’s about half of the man
He stands on stage and acts.
The second one is a talker
In a very vaunted arena.
He seems as incapable of truth
As a citizen named Fiorina.
He’s been faking his credentials
And his skin has darkened.
He’s orange, so one wonders
If the old KKK has harkened.
The third one was a big cheese
And he was a big deal once
Until his mouth and behavior
Proved him to be a dunce.
But not before his crew
And his ineptitude managed
To leave the country *******
And semi-permanently damaged.
The fourth was the third’s pal
In all those dastardly deeds
That any tale well scripted
Or any tragedy needs.
He made a bundle for him
And all of his colluding pals.
Maybe he thought that might
Make him attractive to the gals.
The next one is the queen
Of the Washington crazies.
She might make a bigger fool
Of herself, but she’s too lazy
And as stupid as a box of lint.
She opens mouth and convinces.
Every time she speechifies
The entire country winces.
So, now we have done it
We have played Name That Goon.
If this glib poet doesn’t choke
We can have more real soon.
So, you all play nice and have fun
At your next political gathering.
And keep track of who is who
And what they are all blathering.
Oct 8, 2015
Oct 8, 2015 at 3:39 AM UTC
The journey of memory mealtime lane.
First stop, let’s get it over.
The painful place of supper time tension.
Watching the clock, start the race
To produce the evening prize.
Another plate – protein, vege,
A third of carbs is wise.
Table laid, stage is set,
But there’s a stomach-churning silence,
I’m staring at the wooden spoon.
His sallow face swallows and the
Fork shuffles, napkin placed on the pile.
His footsteps leave, we try to ignore
The deserted plate - talk and smile
Come on now, memory mealtime store
Fill me a tasty smell –
Grandmas’s larder – whole room devoted!
Crinkled brown paper nesting
Squares of brownies, gingerbread.
Eyes behold, like moons of light
Boubon biscuits, french sponge fingers.
Other worldliness, such a sight!
Now take me back to nice school dinners,
Waiting down the hall, up the playground steps.
Will treacle cake all have gone,
Just leaving rice and prunes?
Dreadful cold white mash potato scoops
Neatly spread apart.
My favourite - dark chocolate sponge
And jam pink marshmallow ****
Join me to sitting round
My family kitchen table,
‘Best bit is the skin,’ Dad and me agree.
He approves as I eat
My little sister’s potato jacket.
I’m good and there’s plenty
And we’re all feeling full.
Every plate eaten clean, completely empty.
I remember secretly sneaking
Opening tins and picking out pieces
Of chocolate from choc chip cookies.
By the window, our Kenwood soda stream,
It’s bottles like shop bought fizzy pop!
And Dad’s homemade wholemeal loaf
Unlike any bread from the shop.
My Sixth form packed lunch –
Two Ryvita sandwiches with a kipling cake,
A calorie counting diet
Eaten by morning break
Whilst writing the stove is forgotten
And now the smell of overcooked stew -
Burnt pan supper – a frequent memory.
I think I can save it, definitely cooked through.
Arriving at the end of mealtime lane,
A message to hang in the kitchen high above
Something I’ve learnt to remember,
That the food in our lives must be all about love.
May 23, 2021
May 23, 2021 at 5:09 PM UTC