"limbed" poems
I inhale and hold my breath until I see black-
blank spots in my vision.
I exhale and release
beautiful, long-limbed clouds of smoke.
Shrouding my face, covering my eyes
blinding me to everything
but these pale tendrils
fluid and simple
curling wisps of smoke
scar the air
scar the silence
and
all secrets lie in smoke
if i could read it, i would know
the world.
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 5:00 PM UTC
Out of the mid-wood’s twilight
Into the meadow’s dawn,
Ivory limbed and brown-eyed,
Flashes my Faun!
He skips through the copses singing,
And his shadow dances along,
And I know not which I should follow,
Shadow or song!
O Hunter, snare me his shadow!
O Nightingale, catch me his strain!
Else moonstruck with music and madness
I track him in vain!
8k
well, I'm a foreign dialect,
and musically uninclined, I'm the exoticism
fetishized by old white men who want a Greek-Italian-
Latina-Persian harem.
I am the the voice that doesn't match the body,
the long-limbed and quiet. My insides are not my
outsides, my tenderness with them won't
be afforded to you, not just yet. And I lick
the wrapper on every dark chocolate bar,
my O-mouth on every milkshake straw,
knowing I am being watched
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 9:14 PM UTC
Muelle de Binondo Street,
Barangay San Nicolas,
Old Manila.
My dad's fate
Will always be muddled
With nostalgia:
The mid-afternoon
Traffic of fruit vendors,
The toothless strains
Of my grandfather's voice,
Bouncing off
The warehouse walls
Like folding cardboard,
The ceramic gallops of horse-
Drawn kalesas taking him
From school to
My grandfather's offices,
Every day and back,
Up and down
The cardboard box river
To Tondo. There, he hurriedly
Buys ten
Asado buns
From a stall across the
Street from their
School - a voracious
Schoolboy
Forever late for class, forever
Putting on basketball jerseys
Too wide for him,
Basketball shorts too
Short; body
Always too gangly,
Too long-limbed, wide eyed
And fleet footed
For his dreams to catch.
He once could dunk.
He is still a baby boomer -
Scared of firecrackers,
Weird penchant
For popped collar shirts,
Pointed shoes, and
Sequins - he, was an avid
Lover of stars - his old
Dust-strewn bed posts
Giving way, I imagine,
To iron bars caging
The luminous starry night,
Floating high above
The sewage
And the freight trucks
That weigh him so.
They sang to him.
In the tune of
My mother's voice -
The only album
He ever possessed.
Song set from
His favorite band.
"Apo Hiking Society."
His favorite word,
Was "leap."
A disciple
Of MJ, Dr. J,
And Magic,
Samboy, and Jawo,
Icarus on hardwood
And leaping
From the free throw line.
"Son," he once told me,
"You gotta leap
"If you wanna live."
He was always afraid of heights.
It wasn't until 41 that
We made him ride a roller-coaster,
That he had even seen a roller-coaster.
"You gotta leap
"If you wanna live."
I think my favorite
Memory of my dad
Is still him wringing my fingers
At Space Mountain with
Eyes so tightly shut
That we forgot
Our fears,
And screamed instead:
So.
This,
Is how the stars look like
When unbolted
By folding cardboard,
And iron bars.
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 9:32 AM UTC
i see her empty heart
stand against the sky
and hear angels weeping
like sounds of beasts in terror
long-limbed beasts upon thrones of fear
in dormitories of white brides and crucifixes
daughters of cimmerian gloom
whose eyes are fallen night
vailed portraits of desire
like endless winter sky
and her naked breast sweetens
his mouth
in a shivering mist
as he falls upon her
like starving flames
Jul 3, 2018
Jul 3, 2018 at 1:49 PM UTC
I dwell in a lonely house I know
That vanished many a summer ago,
And left no trace but the cellar walls,
And a cellar in which the daylight falls,
And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow.
O’er ruined fences the grape-vines shield
The woods come back to the mowing field;
The orchard tree has grown one copse
Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops;
The footpath down to the well is healed.
I dwell with a strangely aching heart
In that vanished abode there far apart
On that disused and forgotten road
That has no dust-bath now for the toad.
Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart;
The whippoorwill is coming to shout
And hush and cluck and flutter about:
I hear him begin far enough away
Full many a time to say his say
Before he arrives to say it out.
It is under the small, dim, summer star.
I know not who these mute folk are
Who share the unlit place with me—
Those stones out under the low-limbed tree
Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar.
They are tireless folk, but slow and sad,
Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,—
With none among them that ever sings,
And yet, in view of how many things,
As sweet companions as might be had.
3.3k
i’m fighting with gravity
to the death- until my head rests,
empty as my belly
on this false-porcelain floor-
skin waxy as laminate over
these heavy hollow bones
waiting for freedom-
liberation from this sullen casing.
i shake, manic-
blood pressure in the basement,
nauseous from diet pills and anxiety.
jittery, stare at the ceiling-
a spider, stick-limbed, teases me,
but here’s the silver lining:
no curds or whey coating
my shining insides.
i am stronger and brighter than ever
as black swims in my vision-
light-headed from malnutrition,
i wrap fingers around my wrists
to make sure i haven’t escaped my limits.
the mirror doesn’t lie, but it won’t snitch.
we’ll keep this surreptitious.
spilling my bloodred guts, my blood,
won’t make me wither,
and confessing won't save me either.
this red ribbon stays tied around my wrist.
secrets kept keep me stable
clinging to my only success,
self-confidence cellophane-wrapped
in my absence, my transparence.
the whispers don’t mean a thing.
i am frantic on a wire frame,
white noise on parade.
the ground can only hold me for so long.
i'll sprout wings from my ribcage
and float away.
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 7:53 PM UTC
All I smell's Hawaiian Tropic
My vision seems very myopic
Bikini girls my visions topic
It's time to hit the surf
Lime and salty margaritas
Hot and **** senoritas
Bikini girls my visions greeters
It's time to hit the surf
Sitting here upon the beach
These women are just out of reach
In my mind I'd love to teach
But...you're the one I love
Tanned, long limbed and in the water
There's one beauty, I wish I'd caught her
Still, I think she's someone's daughter
I wish that you were here
Sitting here was all unplanned
Where all I see is surf and sand
It's heaven in this tropic land
I wish that you were here
Sitting here upon the beach
These women are just out of reach
In my mind I'd love to teach
But...you're the one I love
Ray Bans cover up my eyes
As I stare upon their oiled up thighs
I hear them yell and hear their cries
Youthful beauty at it's best
A boat drink full of Cuban ***
Brings me back to why I'd come
It leaves me feeling rather numb
I'm glad I'm here alone
Sitting here upon the beach
These women are just out of reach
In my mind I'd love to teach
Now I know why we split up.
Sep 4, 2012
Sep 4, 2012 at 7:09 PM UTC
My lala sassy Coco beloved.
queens of purple heart mine.
to those loving me near or far.
~~~~~~~~~~~
And you sweetheart
You the awakened one when I fought to stay alive eons ago precioso mio.
Don't worry you woke me up
this thunderous hail winter
upon waking up opening my eyes
transforms to eternal spring.
And as the decades passed revealing so many secrets that you scattered of gold bars and treasures throughout Earth
for enchanted frog little me
in a tini pond destined to search you in your ocean
All treasures now conceived in thought understood grasped too late,
slide like water through my fingers
lost in inaction
Recaptured
in memory thought apeacing me giving strength.
The mind makes everything that's gone very real.
Amorsitos, hermosos you have many names I know you by a few
my precious king of hearts
I own only my heart of gold
jewels are my kids all grown-up
I love your family jewels.
Cariños mios your hands your voice
the way you walk talk as if you sway me and visit me unexpectedly
and it happens often
~~~~~~
Lover long sun kissed limbed
It all lingers true and clear.
Any woman queen Angel or scribe
would go nuts just hearing your tantric sensual voice
but not the way like I can.
Holding your hands loving me imprinting me with
your fingers kissing your palm prints
all over my pristine remote
unexplored seashores.
In your Island for private
romantic lovers you and me
You must feel safe here dear
just a poetess dreaming of you.
My mind make it all real.
and it does again and again..
your voice bridges any gaps
Our dream breathes and lives
when I hear your voice you melt
me or freeze me evaporated me
I cry and laugh and hear God
speaking to me in your voice
it's all so amusing
And bittersweet
I miss and love you all so much
tini litt baby girls and boys mine
"I give my life to save yours
if only any of you ask, you wrote"
I love you adore you.
Te amo the amo.
~~~~~~
By Karijinbba
All rights Reserved
Jul 5, 2021
Jul 5, 2021 at 5:32 PM UTC
If I catch a deadly fever someday,
I want you to kiss me and,
Keep kissing me on and on,
Let it be as passionate to scare death away,
And let it keep away till we grow older,
Much older and rickety limbed,
To finally kiss each other while ******* life out of each other.
Kiss me till I die, I will reciprocate.
Apr 14, 2014
Apr 14, 2014 at 12:30 AM UTC
Like lions licking lacerations
Limp-lipped, lucid lamentation
Loyalties lax, love's liquidation
Lapping lust's lye lemonade
Like lemmings, leaping liberation
Loose-limbed, lurid lachrymation
Learning love's lone limitation
Life: liars lie, lovers lay
Jan 10, 2017
Jan 10, 2017 at 7:44 PM UTC
(To Ellen Terry)
As one who poring on a Grecian urn
Scans the fair shapes some Attic hand hath made,
God with slim goddess, goodly man with maid,
And for their beauty’s sake is loth to turn
And face the obvious day, must I not yearn
For many a secret moon of indolent bliss,
When in midmost shrine of Artemis
I see thee standing, antique-limbed, and stern?
And yet—methinks I’d rather see thee play
That serpent of old Nile, whose witchery
Made Emperors drunken,—come, great Egypt, shake
Our stage with all thy mimic pageants! Nay,
I am grown sick of unreal passions, make
The world thine Actium, me thine Anthony!
2.1k
Tantamount to the crawlspace where your emotions
are dissembled,
is the animalistic focus in your pointed gaze,
Sketchy eyed with jerky limbed motions,
As elusive as you are always around,
Or so it would seem,
Their eyes fall upon you,
no doubt,
You are a vision,
That I do not and have never questioned,
There is a fundamental lack of
hesitancy in your days,
lately you have looked let down,
Thinking of you,
occurs outside the restraints of time,
I would like to be everything with you.
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 12:36 PM UTC
Head to limp head, the sunk-eyed wounded scanned
Yesterday's Mail; the casualties (typed small)
And (large) Vast ***** from our latest Haul.
Also, they read of Cheap Homes, not yet planned,
'For,' said the paper, 'when this war is done
The men's first instinct will be making homes.
Meanwhile their foremost need is aerodromes,
It being certain war has but begun.
Peace would do wrong to our undying dead, -
The sons we offered might regret they died
If we got nothing lasting in their stead.
We must be solidly indemnified.
Though all be worthy Victory which all bought,
We rulers sitting in this ancient spot
Would wrong our very selves if we forgot
The greatest glory will be theirs who fought,
Who kept this nation in integrity.'
Nation? - The half-limbed readers did not chafe
But smiled at one another curiously
Like secret men who know their secret safe.
(This is the thing they know and never speak,
That England one by one had fled to France,
Not many elsewhere now, save under France.)
Pictures of these broad smiles appear each week,
And people in whose voice real feeling rings
Say: How they smile! They're happy now, poor things.
2k
Look at the 8 limbed creature A nightly procedure
What was meant to create life Now substitutes a knife
The disappearance of the individual Such a cruel ritual
Aug 30, 2025
Aug 30, 2025 at 11:21 AM UTC
A discordant gain
moves through the hall
echoes off every wall
and reverberates again
through my chest cavity.
my ribcage thrums
obstinate, hopeful
it is a clear fullness
it is the water that I carry.
The cistern is broken
but
it has been sealed in gold
that reflects the light of
things that have been, are, or will be
and it is the lightning fracture
that appeals to Him now
more than the gold itself.
I know your
heavy lead-heart, lead-limbed
sorrow.
I know the iron nails
your mind would drive
up into your own veins.
You crucify yourself not every three days
but every day
every night
every hour.
It is the lightning-fracture
that reminds you of this place
moreso than the gold ever could.
The high, dissonant clattering
in the world
drives into your dryness.
I will give you water
but to hold it, you must seal
your cracks, yourself.
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 12:28 PM UTC
I try to write when I am tired
but tiny spiders descend around my desk.
Newly-hatched eight limbed-things
parasail
the silk lids over my eyes.
If only I could ride out the exhale and
go at once adrift, self-rappel
I would climb the silk suspension line
swing from thought to thought
thread the eye of the needle
pull-ey up the beanstalk.
but instead I'm left to watch these aerial yoginis
swim on a draft from the ceiling.
These spinsters with their poetic acrobatics
for whom rhythm is spun on silent trapeze--
make a play-swing
out of gravity.
The tiny spiders that descend around my desk
make me--an oaf.
a self-honoring monument
for climbing, a botched landmark to ---human ingenuity
me, a moving pedestal for dancing
me, a knotted up windsock
hunched over a heated screen,
trying to blow down metaphor, alliteration
from these tiny kites that ascend the earth.
Tiny spider, tiny spider
let down your silk tresses
draw up my mind
swing the high rafters
I want to hang upside down--
make a play-swing
out of gravity.
Yet when I pulled on the thread
to net the silken-mouthed beast,
words did not come down
like mana from heaven.
Rather, my tongue grew heavy with cotton
metaphor, alliteration,
the fabric of suspended poetry
unraveled.
Lucid improvisation fell like Icarus
to quips.
because thinking to write
and writing to think is like
pulling dead hair
from spaghetti.
Meanwhile, tiny spiders descend around my desk
parasail
and make a play-swing out of gravity.
Jun 28, 2012
Jun 28, 2012 at 4:13 AM UTC
How was it there in Isengard,
Former haven of the proud,
Whose hollowed valley hid the rot
Beneath its treeless hills,
Ancient machinations tunneled far below
The smooth, impervious tower of Saruman,
The Iridescent Dazzler,
Whose quiet words slipped Sauron's thoughts
Inside our weaker minds?
Venom running hot...then changing cold
Within old Saruman on Gandalf's salutation:
"Saruman the White,"
Changing Truth for truths,
Something totally desired.
"I prefer Saruman the White!"
I think old Gandalf said
While he was still "The Gray,"
(Just before his lofty spire stay).
But evil magic has its ends,
Tendrils turn upon themselves,
Vines tangling slow or fast,
Returning to the evil doer's door
While Good climbs steadily to new beginnings
Rooted in the Old and True,
Reaching for the sun.
Old Ents in righteous anger
Broke dams, diverted streams to flood
The war machines of Isengard,
Drove Orcs and Wargs and Trolls to doom,
Drowned the furnaces...
Then, mourning tree-limbed kin,
Greeted Gandalf on his way to greater things,
And pledged themselves to holy war.
Saruman the Proud,
The sooty iridescent,
The abject coward,
Stripped of power,
Fled unrepentant
Into the mists of Middle Earth
While Sauron's eye glared
West and East,
Wraith-seeking
Frodo and
The Ring.
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 9:18 AM UTC
Behold merrily dancing eyes! moonrise-hued that delight in surprise,
Waterfall-cascading hair, sleepily stirring from a golden lair,
Heaven-glimpsed in leafy disguise, powerless to resist I surmise,
Elven locks frame an Eden-parterre, a majestic Springtime fayre!
Banished Winter’s-strife, unveiled a collective bursting into life,
Love, laugher and blossom hold sway, a dress-parade in full panoply,
Nimble Elven hands serve as nature’s midwife, their deliveries run rife!
This is no chaotic affray, but the Almighty order we never gainsay.
Their unbridled gaiety I watch in wonder, but I feel such an intruder,
Stiff limbed I shake off love’s-hibernation, a lifelong affliction,
Shall I be welcome I ponder, or will they flee in panic and anger?
Their joyous souls offer salvation, unleashed a grim determination!
A rapturous-smiled greeting! handshakes and hugs - our first meeting!
Blinkers-away restores my sight, from this embrace I must not take flight,
Alas! this is mere wish-dreaming, awake my face is aglow and gleaming!
This kinship-reverie serves to ignite, a joy and happiness so eager to excite.
Gone are doubt-swirling mists, hopeful lips plead to be kissed,
This alluring Elven-dream, lures me into passion’s fragrant-stream,
No more envy-bound wrists, as I fiercely battle loves-duellists,
Folly pursuit of Crusading esteem? no courage with a steely gleam!
My brow burns with the fierce rays of Summer,
My soul plunges into despair, with the decline and fall of Autumn,
My feet are mired in the cloying-clay of a sodden Winter,
But heart-contentment sings aloud with the uplifting beat of Spring!
© Robert Porteus
Jun 20, 2021
Jun 20, 2021 at 7:00 AM UTC
Out of the mid-wood's twilight
Into the meadow's dawn,
Ivory limbed and brown-eyed,
Flashes my Faun!
He skips through the copses singing,
And his shadow dances along,
And I know not which I should follow,
Shadow or song!
O Hunter, snare me his shadow!
O Nightingale, catch me his strain!
Else moonstruck with music and madness
I track him in vain!
Jul 17, 2013
Jul 17, 2013 at 10:35 AM UTC
In Neverland - never to grow old
never to marry that sweetheart
never to have children and grandchildren
nor watch hair thin and grey.
Full of derring-do - more dash than discipline
lanky and loose-limbed they swank and saunter
not like soldiers at all
no doff the cap humility
to the old rules and distant monarchies.
From a newly stolen world
hardly secured or steady with itself
lodged on the edge of a vast continent
clinging to a rim of turquoise blue.
Now cramped
in the pock-holed sores of ancient lands
richly bone-dusted from time to time.
Waiting for the fight to end
to go ‘back home’ ‘over there’
to farms and factories; schools and stations.
Still there - left behind
in the archipelago of cemeteries
as far as Fromelles, Pozieres,
to Bullencourt and Paschendaele
in fields of beetroot and corn,
fields bleeding red with poppies
beside the Menin Road at Ypres
in bluebelled woods of Verdun
in the silt of the Somme
on the plains of Flanders
in the victory graves at Amiens
Monash’s boys - the lost boys
cried for their mothers
begged for water
screamed to die
hung like khaki bundles on the wire.
Commanded by Field Marshalls
who never went to the fields,
who played the numbers game
in a war of bluff and bluster,
who never touched the dirt and slime,
nor waded through the ****** slush
of broken men and boys,
never waist-deep in mud and sinking,
wounded and drowning in that shambles of a war
Wearing dead men’s boots
and shrapnel-holed helmets
tunics and leggings splattered and rotting
with dead men’s blood and brains
Some haunted boys came home
knapsacks full of secret pictures,
old rusty tins crammed with suffering
breast pockets held their grief
wrapped in shroud-shreds.
They brought their duckboard demons
to the world of peace
Gas-choked fretful lungs still brought
the caustic fumes with every breath exhaled
and from every pore the death-sweat of decay.
But most boys were lost boys
lost forever in that no-man’s land
that Neverland of lives unlived.
© M.L.Emmett
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 12:32 PM UTC
Evidently frogs lie in wait,
And the moon sets on stranger ground,
Than we will ever imagine,
Grey landscapes of endless twilight and,
Shifting sand,
Shadows that congeal into shapeless forms,
Gliding over dank walls,
Flowing into dimly lit caverns,
Filled with hunched figures,
Hundreds of them,
Four limbed slugs captured eons ago,
Growing wings and emerging from sacs,
Peering into neon and,
Farting occasionally,
Stubby limbs chained to,
Grimey floors,
Tubes running into foreheads,
Ruffling DNA,
Every so often we run into humans,
Who do not understand,
That they are only Earthlings,
This side of the Universe,
Night flies on computer screens,
Attracted to the light completely.
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 4:53 PM UTC
Replicated "t" square, heated and manipulated to match a hand drawn schematic, eye-balled and transferred to a soiled napkin two days prior.
Recovery spent melee inspired by whispered breath. Kin to wind, multi- colored marshmallows, or hard candies that have been rewrapped quickly and shuffled to the bottom of the bag.
Periscope ala multi-limbed, e.g. tentacular. Rain spun abundant large geometric insect eyes radiating opalescent transit; here and there, over or under, stop and go, when = then, two - days - life - end.
Glowing hand, darkest white light in a vacant space. All secrets hidden with trust, imagination, and neglect; recalling memories for those who live to forget. Like a hunger fed plentifully followed by a playful belch aloud for honor and comfort. Later, the indulgence calls and abdominal gases produce an acidic truth that burns the memory back into awareness.
Flush it away now! Get rid of it quickly. There is no time to respect the whole past, only that which allows performance to continue uninterrupted.
Tuck those memories away deeper this time; the ***** will drown you before it drowns them. Laying around and crying aloud won't pay the bills; if nothing else remember, a good American is a good consumer and a good consumer never wastes time getting to know themselves when the alternative is television.
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 6:46 AM UTC
Not everybody is interested in everything.
Everyone's got their own particular sphere and multi-limbed web of general interests.
When one goes on about a topic that another finds uninteresting, then their listener is bound to get bored, (and boredom is the precursor to annoyance.)
This is where tact comes in. Tactfulness is the ability to read boredom (as well as uneasiness, embarrassment, and any other general anxiety-inducing feelings) in your listener. Someone with tact knows when to change the subject and/or shut up altogether. It's a subtlety.
However, the more passionate one feels about a subject, the harder it is for them to show tact when talking about it.
This explains why nerds and drunks get such a bad rap for being annoying. (God forbid, a drunken nerd . . . )
Because they feel so passionately about the topics that they're interested in that they'll often talk at great length about them without any regard for their audiences' boredom. (And prolonged boredom invariably leads to annoyance.)
This is why the nerdiest of nerds is often regarded as a god amongst their peers (with "peers" in this sense really just meaning people of similar interests.) Because they have such vast knowledge of such a particular subject (which is often of very little interest to most Others. ("Others" in this sense meaning people who are outside of this particular circle of peers.))
The same may or may not be true for drunks.
(Although, there's something to be said about both of them being the most likely to have conversations with no one but themselves.)
This also explains general aloofness (a.k.a. coolness, i.e. "being cool.")
The types who seem so disinterested in everything that people often become interested in them if for no other reason than to simply find out what it is that they actually do find interesting.
This is why cool people tend to be so popular. Everyone trying their hand at gaining their attention by drawing it to this thing or that thing, with a weird need of validation being thinly-veiled beneath it.
(This might also explain why "cool" people tend to be such ******** often dismissing these constant attempts to grab their attention as either pathetic and/or depressing.)
Then, of course, there are the word-smiths. The Salesmen.
Those who fancy themselves so intelligent as to be able to twist what their audience would otherwise find disinteresting into something that they can't live without,
often through some combination of communication manipulation and nonverbal tricks.
But just don't listen to them.
Feb 15, 2017
Feb 15, 2017 at 12:19 AM UTC
Fight, Love, Look, See,
Take in such a beautiful brawl that stars you and me,
Flying chairs and broken glass,
Blackened eyes and much-kicked ***
One more time around that big ball of fire,
What will this trip bring this time around?
Some mud and hard to trek mire,
Or gold and diamond laid ground,
An easy path ahead towards we joyfully bound?
Such wisdom must lie in the future,
Startling realizations and obstacles we approach,
Yet stretches onward like a magnificent azure beacher,
That one might upon first glance be wary to broach.
But saunter forth we must,
With the trodden gait of some war-weary old sailor,
With a rind of salt crust,
Who has been both Captain and Bailer,
Lost-Limbed and near broken.
Such a great journey this last trip was,
Such changes it has brought,
With a son I learned caution and to be more kind,
Abandoning my careless risks,
To have more presence of mind,
To weigh my options and be more careful with my money,
And to always be more kind.
But roots you should not forget,
To take chances still,
To still live life with no regrets,
For no flour is made in a place that is a still mill.
Love this world,
But don't hate the things you can't change,
Fight for those things,
With tooth and claw,
For those things will be the most relished victory of all.
I sit here typing this,
A bittersweet adieu to the year 2022,
For death rung in the year,
And leaves me with the gift of a new life,
The start with a startling pain from the stab of a knife,
But ending with the approaching of joy that is oh-so-near.
Lace up your boots,
Strap on your pack,
Take a seat,
Buckle in,
7 seconds left on this bucking bronc,
A last kick that will bring a few more knocks,
But will bring in the new year with smiles that lets the last stings of death defrocked.
Dec 29, 2022
Dec 29, 2022 at 3:42 AM UTC