"millet" poems
It’s something that try we should
To provide the parrot its basic food
Apple minus seeds mango banana
Grape orange guava papaya
As for vegetables cooked dried bean
With beet broccoli its heart you can win
Cucumber carrot and cauliflower
They surely love like they love a shower
Corn on the cob is fun for parrot
They aren’t fussy as them you thought
Hot peppers peapod lettuce
For them delicacies you can choose
Sweet and baked potato well cooked yam
They devour in delight add to their glam
Parrots are cute friendly and nice
Give them oatmeal millet brown rice
They’re not greedy from you they won’t beg
Though these birds love scrambled boiled egg
The parrot is innocent gorgeous and sweet
Can’t call them carnivore yes they like meat
Must talk to them and not keep your mouth shut
Your loving pet the parrot loves occasional nut.
Now words of caution what don’t do them good
Candy and chocolate and all junk food
I know you are smart and not at all mean
To offer this wonder bird mushrooms caffeine
Believe my words they aren’t my opinion
Use them in your food don’t give them onion
Dairy products for them are a big ‘no’ ‘no’
You surely want them to healthily glow
Give the parrot shower keep its cage clean
Give them just fresh foods no sugar no caffeine
Say ‘no’ to pesticides choose only organic
See in their bowel nothing goes toxic
Follow what I’ve said the task is not hard
Spend your time well with this beautiful bird.
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 8:18 AM UTC
for Hazel and Joe
Just walking the parrot
Said the lady on the beach
He's so shy you know this bright bird
If he were to sit on my shoulder
Seeing you children come toward him
He'd fly off and away with the gannets
So he stays safe in his basket
Swinging on his perch to and fro
Snacking on cuttlefish and a millet bar
My son Steve brought him back from Belize
He's been my companion four years this June
No, he doesn't speak but he does a fine squark
Aug 29, 2012
Aug 29, 2012 at 3:39 AM UTC
**How can you be truly tough
In this painful world?
How can you stand firm
When the spears of agony are hurled?
Most people in the proud US of A
Don't have a clue of the
price they have to pay.
Western people do not know
What hardship really is.
So gratitude is lacking...
It is this...
Gratitude is having a ***
That doesn't leak,
To walk miles for diseased
Water from a creek.
Gratitude in thanking God
For the dry wood
To cook the rice or millet
For your food.
Gratitude is finding
A pair of shoes
In a garbage heap
That you can use.
Gratitude is finding
Pesos in your hand
When you beg the streets
In a poor land.
Gratitude is escaping
Vicious thugs
Who deal in human
Trafficking and drugs.
Gratitude is Hellen Keller
With no hope
Finding Annie Sullivan
To cope.
Gratitude is having NOTHING
And in pain
On one's deathbed, but yet
The fact remains
They are redeemed
And they have Lord Jesus' grace
So they know that they
Will look in his sweet face.
Being tough is seeing life
As is and still not breaking
Being brave and looking
Not forsaking
Being tough is a
Mental attitude.
Loving God and thanking Him
It's GRATITUDE.**
SoulSurvivor
Catherine Jarvis
(C) September 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 5:15 PM UTC
You whom I could not save
Listen to me.
Try to understand this simple speech as I would be ashamed of another.
I swear, there is in me no wizardry of words.
I speak to you with silence like a cloud or a tree.
What strengthened me, for you was lethal.
You mixed up farewell to an epoch with the beginning of a new one,
Inspiration of hatred with lyrical beauty,
Blind force with accomplished shape.
Here is the valley of shallow Polish rivers. And an immense bridge
Going into white fog. Here is a broken city,
And the wind throws the screams of gulls on your grave
When I am talking with you.
What is poetry which does not save
Nations or people?
A connivance with official lies,
A song of drunkards whose throats will be cut in a moment,
Readings for sophomore girls.
That I wanted good poetry without knowing it,
That I discovered, late, its salutary aim,
In this and only this I find salvation.
They used to pour millet on graves or poppy seeds
To feed the dead who would come disguised as birds.
I put this book here for you, who once lived
So that you should visit us no more.
4.6k
When will the day bring its pleasure?
When will the night bring its rest?
Reaper and gleaner and thresher
Peer toward the east and the west:--
The Sower He knoweth, and He knoweth best.
Meteors flash forth and expire,
Northern lights kindle and pale;
These are the days of desire,
Of eyes looking upward that fail;
Vanishing days as a finishing tale.
Bows down the crop in its glory
Tenfold, fifty-fold, hundred-fold;
The millet is ripened and hoary,
The wheat ears are ripened to gold:--
Why keep us waiting in dimness and cold?
The Lord of the harvest, He knoweth
Who knoweth the first and the last:
The Sower Who patiently soweth,
He scanneth the present and past:
He saith, "What thou hast, what remaineth, hold fast."
Yet, Lord, o'er Thy toil-wearied weepers
The storm-clouds hang muttering and frown:
On threshers and gleaners and reapers,
O Lord of the harvest, look down;
Oh for the harvest, the shout, and the crown!
"Not so," saith the Lord of the reapers,
The Lord of the first and the last:
"O My toilers, My weary, My weepers,
What ye have, what remaineth, hold fast.
Hide in My heart till the vengeance be past."
3.8k
..
You whom I could not save
Listen to me.
Try to understand this simple speech as I would be ashamed of another.
I swear, there is in me no wizardry of words.
I speak to you with silence like a cloud or a tree.
What strengthened me, for you was lethal.
You mixed up farewell to an epoch with the beginning of a new one,
Inspiration of hatred with lyrical beauty;
Blind force with accomplished shape.
Here is a valley of shallow Polish rivers. And an immense bridge
Going into white fog. Here is a broken city;
And the wind throws the screams of gulls on your grave
When I am talking with you.
What is poetry which does not save
Nations or people?
A connivance with official lies,
A song of drunkards whose throats will be cut in a moment,
Readings for sophomore girls.
That I wanted good poetry without knowing it,
That I discovered, late, its salutary aim,
In this and only this I find salvation.
They used to pour millet on graves or poppy seeds
To feed the dead who would come disguised as birds.
I put this book here for you, who once lived
So that you should visit us no more.
Warsaw, 1945
- by Czeslaw Milosz
st, 13 dec 13
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 4:46 AM UTC
Mading relieves Manute from guard duty.
They share a meagre meal of millet porridge before
Manute returns to the refugee nation of southern Sudan.
The noon sun is a harsh sentence for a parched tongue but
they talk not of coffee or juice-laden fruit and
rice and lentils are mountain memories their stomachs can ill afford.
Instead they curse the clear skies that rain only strafing jets and
pray for their dry-breasted wives on pilgrimage to the aid station
carrying children swollen with the promise of death.
They snarl rumours about al-Bashir’s lapdogs
in Khartoum growing fat on food intended for them.
Jason waits, informed by cell phone of Laurie's imminent arrival.
He orders a wheat beer, its earth tone inviting on a silver tray and
its musky sweetness washing away a morning of phone business.
The noon sun is a warm blessing through the picture window but
they talk not of haloed hills or the light-laden river and
recession and retrenchment are market memories their ulcers can ill afford.
Instead they debate '63 cabernet versus '74 chablis and
moan about their reconstructed wives driving halfway across town
carrying children swollen with the promise of private schooling.
They snarl rumours about Key's cabinet
in Wellington while wolfing crayfish and Steak Diane.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 11:54 PM UTC
Merhaba ey parlak şehir!
Bu vakitte yalnız meydan,
Görünmüyor ki bir insan,
Sokaklar kurumuş nehir.
Yalnız deniz yeli gelir,
Kuşlar geçer zaman zaman,
Millet kafede mi bu an?
Bu şehir ve Mevlam bilir.
Ne o aşıkları gördüm,
Nede ışıkları gördüm,
Bir serin boşluk sadece.
Lakin bu ortam rahattı,
Erkendi şehrin saati,
Bu da bazen kardır gece.
Sep 7, 2017
Sep 7, 2017 at 2:43 PM UTC
Sunset whispers to itself
~No time outlives time~
The meltemi winds crackle the wild millet,
Graze-feed upon the stalks of Greek plains,
The pelican scoops up the honeyed Aegean,
Waves of sunlit anise and almond in refrain,
Vestigial as the sweet persimmon from Egypt,
The hammered warmth from the flat anvil of Africa,
Sunset whispers to itself
~No time outlives time~
Aug 27, 2020
Aug 27, 2020 at 7:43 PM UTC
*I want to trend
Not in modern but in the good ancient my friend
I want a candle; candles up an earthen chandelier
I'm tired of the tick tack of the modern switch
I want the moon and stars like life was earlier
I'm done with bulbs which when old start to twitch
I want a type writer to capture what I write in my book
I'm tired of computers where all I do's Facebook
I want to revert to the quiet life of my ancestors
I want the warmth of watching the stars
I want to eat beef steamed in Earthenware
Beef with the touch of smoke and of love and care
I'm tired of the modern meat whose source is never clear
I want a meal served hot on her knees complemented by millet beer
I want a home, a real home with an artful grass thatched house
A traditional home with a hound for me and a cat in case of any Mouse
I'm fed up of the modern roofs which roast as if we're pork
I want an affair that's free of silly social media talk
I want a place she and I can have peaceful evening walks
And her eyes not having to watch out for cars
I want someone simple enough to pride in her scars
Open and proud of her weaknesses,one laughter sincerely chokes
I want someone whose thighs will be warm hidden
Someone who won't dare do the forbidden
Not one who'll go at dusk and return at dawn
I want not a queen for that will make me her pawn
Someone who'll give me a massage,not send me to the parlors
One who's content and natural, not painted in colors
Who’ll together with me do laundry, not a laundry machine
I want someone who'll be contented with the little beard on my chin
I want a life like that of my grand father
Small family, moderate success, a wife who isn't a bother
I want a simple life that will give even my enemies peace
I want Africa; I want a bit of my heritage, just a piece
I want that life frozen in sphinx and sculpture
I want to busk in the glory of African culture*
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 10:07 AM UTC
The first is the dream of angelic beauty on the wings of freedom descended from heaven, the hair of its color is millet, the skin is golden in skin color, the eyes shine with a blue and gentle face that amazes with innocent beauty. A truly graceful lioness is like a priceless gift of the sun born of light illuminating the globe.
The second shines with moonlight hair like a night illuminated by star splendor, silvery predatory gaze concealing in itself a mysterious charming force and a ball. She is like a night of uncontrollable desires and temptations. She is your sweet secret dreams, she is an alluring seduction. Her beauty hypnotizes and subjugates to its wild will. As if a wild panther is looking at you and you can hear her passion and bellow her passionately and it seems nothing exists except her.
The third skin with freckles is like milk, it is expressive as its blood, red as ruby, and green as the leaves of the eyes, it strikes everyone with its epicly beautiful beauty.
Three sisters whose beauty is a whole love poem that knows no end or edge.
Author: Musin Almat Zhumabekovich
Feb 18, 2019
Feb 18, 2019 at 6:46 AM UTC
In the sea of aged descension,
debauchery of tortoises and sea horses,
afloat bottoms up.
With fleeting corals,
wilted they wane,
a familiar millet stops by.
Seeping ashes I breathe in,
treacherous flames I shan’t squelch,
left nothing but void to differ the abyss
from an unfathomable surface.
Tidal deluge washes away.
Deprive me of thy momentum,
for I no longer swim.
Dec 17, 2018
Dec 17, 2018 at 4:23 AM UTC
It is pleasant and tasty.
It is bright and cheerful,
The children are blameless.
for the reason that they drink it.
Because their world is virtuous,
Ever since it was green and polite,
It is bright and blue.
So, the morning is flawless.
For sure, today's weather is good.
because the children are drinking "Koko."
And they eat so copiously of Kosai,
Their mouths feel the sweetest,
Their ears stood up straight.
Their bodies are boogying,
They dance well, twirling.
Because of the tasty taste of Koko,
And this was boiled so freshly,
In Safana's Poetry Kitchen,
For children, drink it hot.
It is really good.
It is really tasty.
Children, remember spring,
The millet is harvested.
Children, remember summer,
The corn is harvested.
Go to the farm and cut the crop.
It is a good thing in the morning,
for grannies to mix a porridge
A corn and millet porridge
and is an aroma in a pleasant atmosphere.
Children, let's dance and dance,
Because Koko is delicious,
And Kosai is also delicious.
Mar 23, 2023
Mar 23, 2023 at 9:59 AM UTC
La prudence est bonne de soi,
Mais la pousser trop **** est une duperie :
L'exemple suivant en fait foi.
Des moineaux habitaient dans une métairie :
Un beau champ de millet, voisin de la maison,
Leur donnait du grain à foison.
Ces moineaux dans le champ passaient toute leur vie,
Occupés de gruger les épis de millet
Le vieux chat du logis les guettait d'ordinaire,
Tournait et retournait ; mais il avait beau faire,
Sitôt qu'il paraissait la bande s'envolait.
Comment les attraper ? Notre vieux chat y songe,
Médite, fouille en son cerveau,
Et trouve un tour tout neuf. II va tremper dans l'eau
Sa patte dont il fait éponge.
Dans du millet en grain aussitôt il la plonge ;
Le grain s'attache tout autour.
Alors à cloche-pied, sans bruit, par un détour,
II va gagner le champ, s'y couche
La patte en l'air et sur le dos,
Ne bougeant non plus qu'une souche :
Sa patte ressemblait à l'épi le plus gros.
L'oiseau s'y méprenait, il approchait sans crainte,
Venait pour becqueter ; de l'autre patte, crac,
Voilà mon oiseau dans le sac.
Il en prit vingt par cette feinte.
Un moineau s'aperçoit du piège scélérat,
Et prudemment fuit la machine ;
Mais dès ce jour il s'imagine
Que chaque épi de grain était patte de chat.
Au fond de son trou solitaire
II se retire, et plus n'en sort,
Supporte la faim, la misère,
Et meurt pour éviter la mort.
1.5k
O Kypris and Nereids, undamaged I pray you
grant my brother to arrive here.
And all that in his heart he wants to be,
make it be.
And all the wrongs he did before, loose it.
Make him a joy to his friends,
a pain to his enemies and let there exist for us
not one single further sorrow.
May he willingly give his sister
her portion of honor, but sad pain
[ always an astounding action ]grieving for the past
[ breakneck, breath-taking ]
[ calling, crying. Can't. A ] millet seed
[ Disheartening downpour drenches. ] Once again no
[ Enclosed eyes evident, ears extended ]
[ Fatally flawed ]
[ Groaning ground grows grey ]but you Kypris
[ Hell-bent, heavy, hopelessly hurricaning ] setting aside evil [Insubordinately incoherent]
[ Just jolly ]
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 5:14 PM UTC
Jailed with all the other squawking birds
confined, it never flew and barely grew
& never knew the mimicry of words
sanguine, foul molting cockatoo in the corner
lowered, bloodied, the lowliest in a pecking order
his owner's a loner, a collector of tinged newsprint
entombed in brick & mortar - nomad minus footprint
and his birds, perched across wooden dowels
proceeded to empty their millet'd bowels
onto sheets of unfinished poetry
correctivewhiteoutmisery
so, he, being miserly, wouldn't shell out the reader's fee
to the greedy posthumous publishing company, yet
another relic in a mortuary of literacy
he was just another faceless, bearded bard
and with the old coffee grounds
he would discard
piling mounds of compost, broken bound
his compositions decomposing in the attic
warbling hiss, winding tape spool. ghosts
searching for signals amongst the static
he awaited revision of his works
ill, amidst the scattered ruins
red ink, gold leaf & carets^
he, impetuous, slumped further into his doldrums
though, all public grievances were withdrawn
crass, he prattled on to his dolorous birds
still oblivious to his defunct words
He lied dormant, comatose
in the 3rd degree infirmary
there was once a pretty lass
who could exhume the pristine
glass contents of his tinsel'd tomb
His malady, he once named Gamine
lived in a stretched-white canvas room
she eyed his burnt pile of vile-dirge verse
as mayflys & junebugs, & smoggy dirigibles
fluttered gently out of her empty purse
she grew on him like a cancer
for she was God's embellishment
pallid and perfect, and he cursed
her love as it ebbed and flowed
her aureole glowed, safely stowed
in an airship's overhead compartment
she was flying home for
there was no other answer
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 12:01 AM UTC
Memory takes me back to long ago. I can see the deck of the slave ship I came on, smell the salt air and the hot vinegar used to clean away the escaping stench below the deck, hear the sound as male slaves exercise, as crew members play fiddle music while chains thud hard from the dancing amusement of the slaves. My home was near the River Senegal on the coast. The slave traders ships brought colered cloth, beads, *** and cowrie shells to trade for our black flesh. Father raised cattle, rice and maize. This ebony man traded muskets, gunpowder, needles and colored thread, for what he grew. On the day of our capture, we marched during the long day tied to each other, given only thin meal and warm water. Tiredness bore down on our limbs each step. Canoes came on waves toward us. Fear moved down the chained line of men. Women and children were separated. Our clothes were taken. Standing naked, mouths were opened, and muscles felt. We had to jump up and down while moving our arms. Chosen ones were branded on the skin. I screamed loudly until my voice refuse sound. The time for hearing is gone. Rapid waters filled with blood, as some are tossed into the sea, for circling sharks to dine on. The ship offers only sixteen inches to hold me, others have two and half inches if tightly packed. Bodies are in the hold, secured down by chains that are nailed. Faint cries of agony beat on my ears like drums. I try not to breath in the rancid smells of those who have soiled themselves. Air is limited. Mutiny usually takes place within the shoreline. Because when at sea chances are less to escape. Slaves who simply refuse to eat are force fed with the speculum oris which is placed in the slave's mouth, opening the jaws then food is pushed in usually rice or millet. Crew members tried wash away stench of blood from floggings, feces, ***** from between decks until this day the stench still remains. Living as a slave while your soul is dead is a living horror.
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 9:32 PM UTC
Jailed with all the other squawking birds
confined, it never flew and barely grew
& never knew the mimicry of words
sanguine, foul molting cockatoo in the corner
lowered, bloodied, the lowliest in a pecking order
his owner's a loner, a collector of tinged newsprint
entombed in brick & mortar - nomad minus footprint
and his birds, perched across wooden dowels
proceeded to empty their millet'd bowels
onto sheets of unfinished poetry
correctivewhiteoutmisery
so, he, being miserly, wouldn't shell out the reader's fee
to the greedy posthumous publishing company, yet
another relic in a mortuary of literacy
he was just another faceless, bearded bard
and with the old coffee grounds
he would discard
piling mounds of compost, broken bound
his compositions decomposing in the attic
warbling hiss, winding tape spool. ghosts
searching for signals amongst the static
he awaited revision of his works
ill, amidst the scattered ruins
red ink, gold leaf & carets^
he, impetuous, slumped further into his doldrums
though, all public grievances were withdrawn
crass, he prattled on to his dolorous birds
still oblivious to his defunct words
He lied dormant, comatose
in the 3rd degree infirmary
there was once a pretty lass
who could exhume the pristine
glass contents of his tinsel'd tomb
His malady, he once named Gamine
lived in a stretched-white canvas room
she eyed his burnt pile of vile-dirge verse
as mayflys & junebugs, & smoggy dirigibles
fluttered gently out of her empty purse
she grew on him like a cancer
for she was God's embellishment
pallid and perfect, and he cursed
her love as it ebbed and flowed
her aureole glowed, safely stowed
in an airship's overhead compartment
she was flying home for
there was no other answer
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 4:18 PM UTC
The maniac , manic depressive walking city streets , world inverted , diving head first into the blue separation where night verses day , darkness at war with the light of the world . Gray day inversions , deprivations , tainted perception , misconception and miscalculations .. Bright eyes remit their focus ! The child loses his way . Incapacitated . Confused . Yet intent , focused on the garden of good and bad , temptation , righteousness ! Sexuality . Lasciviousness . Piety surrounded by Lucifers minions ! Crocodiles await the migration of wildebeest , rainbow trout tread turbid water for their afternoon meal , mourning dove to field of millet ! Bewildered sweet spirit reduced to crying in supplication , misunderstood , longing for the path by the light ! Traversing mean streets like the rat , the security of a structure to one side , on a high state of alert ! Pawn of the citizenry , cardboard empire and the bottom feeders . Catfish pawning for dung , corruption amidst the sea of inequity . Images flying point blank , a thousand miles an hour ! Shoot him dead ! Continue killing him long after his last breath . Send him back to the blue , where Angels await !
Oct 23, 2015
Oct 23, 2015 at 1:26 PM UTC
To stair step the terraced fields of my youth ...
Privy to foraging Bobwhite quail and feeding Dove ,
Trails revisiting fields of millet , peanut and sorghum ,
dug wells and rugged , white washed cowsheds ..
Shamrock fields meeting the dusky , azure afternoon ..
The brisk shadow of redundant porch fans , overwhelmed by July's onslaught .. The welcome relief at dusk , courtesy of sweet tea and 'brittle'
..
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 9:22 PM UTC
I want to go right.. Oh, there's no sight.
I want to go left.. But there was once the terrible theft.
I want to go straight.. No, for that long, I cannot wait.
I want to go back.. However, there everything is black.
So where do I go? Up and down, to and fro!
So goes in my head the commotion, when will my life get the promotion.
Lord! Show me your guiding light, give me courage to win this fight.
I want to overcome this turbulence, I want to erase every grievance.
I want love to encircle me, I'll remove the hatred that surrounds for free.
To have a happy life, is all I ask for, peace is the motto, be it love or war.
I have high aims like all, save me the hit of the wrecking ball.
So many emotions fill me right now, life is such a game, in good or bad way makes you exclaim a wow!
I want to speak it all out, Yes, I want my heart, out loud to shout.
But then a fear overshadows my talk, there I prefer through the back door to walk.
I know it might not t be the right thing to do, but another step of mine will make me a boo.
I am not so strong to face what comes, the anxiety in my throat is forming up lumps.
Should I keep it all within? Away from eyes, forever hidden?
That shall push me to continue to live this way, life won't be black or white, but grey.
Confusion will rise every morning, without giving me any warning.
Sadness would be the darkness in night, No, this doesn't feel so right.
I want to be happy, too much to ask? Because I failed in what you gave me as a task?
Don't you realize, that is not who I am, Though I do respect you, sir and ma'am.
But I want to be the way I am born, What in it is wrong?
To bring you a smile, I should sell my soul? And if I refuse, you'll make me live in that dark hole?
Why, today I ask. What have I done? That on my heart, you point that gun.
To live life the way I want I say, so get yours and don't rule mine, okay?
Today I am quiet, why I don't know, but I promise tomorrow I will glow.
My light would make you blind, even then my love will keep you bind.
Because I loved you truly, every minute, for everything from big to as small as a particle of millet.
You should know, nothing can stop me from reaching the top, no matter you push me down at every hop.
I won't get disheartened from any of this, because whatever life has to offer is a bliss.
I won't let this destroy my goal, or burn in my pocket a **** hole.
I will win, I know in my heart, doesn't matter how much you try to be smart.
Yes, this is for all you people out there, with black, grey, white or no hair.
Nothing in this world can slower down my pace,
To my loved ones, I am already a grace!
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 3:14 AM UTC
helps prevent gallstones
eaten to protect the heart
gluten-free millet
Sep 14, 2019
Sep 14, 2019 at 9:20 PM UTC
*Morning birds sing the praises of Dawn in the confectionery forest of home
Red-Tip hedges bustle with Springlike description , Mother Jay cackle and Eastern Gray playful volition
Simple shaded homes bursting with the wonders of rebirth , sunshine canopies appear as visions to Heaven , Red Fox banter in the Sorghum plat lowland , sprite Doves working fields of Millet and Sunflower , Magpie guards , tickled and curt
Hunter Bluebirds falling to earth for grasshoppers , back to the "Crows Nest" in their continual search*
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 10:58 AM UTC
The hole inside myself is perfect,
so perfectly God shaped.
Dusting pain of darkness
- of heart topped millet cake.
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 8:05 AM UTC
Grubeldy whipwacker
Wankelnish flopjet
Humbuddy trunkfish
‘n flibbeldy jibbet
Toncash in Quershramp
‘bout rambley dooerknot
But mershing drengle wobble pip
O’er zanesies lil ole funsher
Pappim with Margine
flittered digtastically
trippingness maze corn
at junterknees rompum
willaby frungwash I e’er
the moors butiffn lashrash
habeldung rungrats at menelrites wing
slipper in trumble ut munkers wingwilly
trilly filly wit em millet in mullet
goobels yamper ropt un globlet
killygard flankrich
brumbldee dompish –
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 4:43 PM UTC