"owners" poems
Young people can you feel the suffering?
roca wear, gucci, apple, facebook, mcdonalds, apple bee's,
honda, lamborghini, harvard, Community College
american express, pnc bank, walmart
Wage Slaves, ceos, owners, lenders, renters, indebtedness
Structural dehumanization, systematic mechanization
Exploited labor feeding blood to your hungering consumerism
Young people you are embracing MISANTHROPY!
Embracing the hate of your own humanity! Why the hypocrisy?
Wealthy children, poor children
Trying for enlightenment through education
Parents garnering wealth through the oppression of their victims
Parents garnering debt through the oppression from economic inequality
Still you invest and promote the only legitimization of your being: CAPITALIST UTILITY
Capitalism engineering unrelenting misanthropy
Vicious economic system discarding humanity
Perfecting the concentration and accumulation of wealth
With the expansion of human alienation and murderous competition
Prostituting your body to labor exploitation and consumerism
Where does your wealth end up?
multinational companies? financial corporations? military arms contractors?
Loyalty lies in their pockets, backstabbing everyday tactics
Killing you through the exploitation of your body
Because they know the birth of another proletariat or bourgeoisie can replace you
Entities, not human, how much have they bought you for so that you cannot see!!!
Beware of these misanthropic missionaries granting your body power and agency
When your body can no longer be plundered for profit you will taste tears and blood
Young people will you deliver your forefathers and fathers
From worshiping capitalist misanthropy?
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 12:56 PM UTC
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Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 5:02 AM UTC
Birds ate there all eatables
flapping their wings as a dance
trimming and preen of the wings
jump here there, losing no chance
black, blue, brown their cute colours
short, long, slim, heavy, lightweight
wings and flight memorable
all in hurry to have fate
chirp in low high sound, fresh mood
they were neat, beautiful smart
search everywhere want of food
giving an end, at the start
each one looking for some good
bit sip enough to quench thirst
no one waiting, for its turn
a cute gay bird, find it first
while the lyrics touch my soul
chirp, chirp, chirp was their tweet, song
making a norm; fresh my mood
melodious their sweet song
ripe fruit there serve passer-by
there were trees to grant a shade
there was rule 'No Restriction'
beauty of leaves not yet fade
pan was waiting to serve them
one sharp sip hurry to fly
child fell down while knocked at rock
help! Help! Shoutinnocent cry
sound dangerous, **** of earth
crackling, falling, housing, wall
help, no rescue love or hate
site was changed in front of all
no charm, fame, concert at all
there was no work, club or shop
speech for help was useless try
any search team, rescue flop
winking eyes now teary one
no-one could found there a bun
there no signs of living one
no care there, no deal, no done
birds ate there all eatables
flapping their wings as a dance
trimming and preen of the wings
jump here there, losing no chance
chirp, chirp sad song low high sound
they were neat, beautiful smart
search everywhere want of food
giving an end, at the star
each one looking for some good
bit sip enough, quench the thirst
no one waiting, for its turn
cute bird could not find it first
while the lyrics, touch my soul
chirp, chirp, chirp was their sad song
making a norm, my sad mood
melodious, fair sad song
no fruit there for passer-by
no trees there to grant a shade
they were buried, there, somewhere
no green leaves at risk of fade
all the owners slept and pressed
sound dangerous lifeless rock
ruined everywhere tragic song
mud, stone, sand, all-cause of shock
no help, care there, love or hate
there was silence as no play
no pan waiting there at all
birds could find a broken tray
you reveal it then I know
my pangs are more than a sea
there is link between the two
soul and body, You and me
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 7:59 PM UTC
so I said to my parrot:
*"Why don't you just
be like the other parrots
and repeat whatever I say?"*
and my obstinate parrot said:
*"Why don't you just
be like the other owners
and say something worth repeating?"*
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 11:01 PM UTC
Little by little
I come no closer to understanding
Why I long for closeness
(An introvert like me)
My friends might deny it
But I know
Why the dogs don't tug on their leashes
And why I never wave hello to their owners
There are moments when
I am reminded of a stranger saying
"It's difficult, huh?
Having a sister that's an extrovert?"
In the middle of the night I wake up thinking
"No, but what's difficult
Is wanting to be the best friend I can be
(An introvert like me)"
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 7:46 PM UTC
so like
i know this isn't the classiest way of doing things
and i apologize in advance for posting my proposal
on the bulletin board
of this skeezy coffee shop -
no offense to the owners
please don't throw this letter away -
but last week
you stole my bike
it was a great one
not shiny or fancy or anything, but it worked well for me
worked for the past four years
and the twenty years before that
when it was still my dad's
and he rode it to the post office every day to
help letters get where they belong
(maybe letters like this one, isn't that romantic
maybe he's guiding this
thanks dad, you're the best)
and passed it on when his knees froze up
and i rode it to this skeezy coffee shop every day -
sorry to the owners
(again)
but i buy your ****** lattes every day
least you can do is let me propose -
but then last week
i left it outside
and didn't lock it
(fate, see)
and you stole my bike
i think
you were probably walking by -
maybe about to come get a ****** latte
from this skeezy coffee shop
(sorry)
but then something caught your eye
i think you saw all the emotion invested in my bike.
two decades of getting letters where they belong.
four years of ****** lattes.
and well
who can resist so much meaning
spread out in the open for anyone to take?
and i mean
since you saw it there,
didn't just say 'oh'
'a bike'
like everyone else,
you were probably meant to have it.
it's a piece of my heart
(the bike i mean)
and now you have it
or maybe you just liked the color
and like
i do too
green is a great color
i like green
you like green
you wanna go out sometime
we could go on a bike ride
except
you stole my bike
anyway
i don't think the bulletins are supposed to be this long
but it's an important one
so maybe it's okay this time
so if you see someone with an old green bike
tell them i'm in the skeezy coffee shop
i'm the one drinking the ****** latte
and holding a jewelry box
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 12:24 PM UTC
There is no moral code
When time is an icy road
Where you cannot stop
Or you'll be stuck in the cold ground
When the temperature drops
Snow collects in my frosty frown
And starts to linger
On my frostbite fingers
While I keep sliding
On the line we're riding
I see icy roads
Leading to icy modes
Of acting
Impacting
The way we treat each other
The same way we beat each other
To the finish line
Of our frigid time
Time isn't nice
When it's ice
But it's all we know
Time continually goes
The challenges grow
Buried in snow
Trying to go uphill is a nasty nope
Sliding downhill is a slippery slope
If you momentarily lose your control
You're pulled over by the cops on patrol
Everything is covered in snow
Even the cars being towed
Their owners gave away their agency
And are at the tow truck driver's mercy
They rely on him to get them to safety
So they cunningly wear his jersey
There are things we want
Acquired by tease and taunt
We drive on top of bodies
To gain traction on the street
We do what is naughty
To have enough to eat
I careen through time
Without seeing a dime
Everything looks so plain
In this frozen rain
When the ordinary life
Is within my sight
I look for something more
Only to see a frozen door
There is ice on the road
There is ice in my heart
I can't handle the load
In the back of my cart
Until I decide
To abide
By the slide
And glide
On the edge of control and freedom
There are other cars and I'll lead them
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 2:03 AM UTC
Words, thoughts, like chords;
Sewn, printed, onto paper.
Works, strewn, unwanted;
Taken to ground like ashes.
Owners forgotten, children;
Stained, broken, like old dolls.
Worn, exhausted, crippled;
All to become their elders.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 3:56 AM UTC
Ok, I didn't want to do this
but there's rules that you must know
Etiquette to be followed
A line that you must toe
Listen very closely now
I think you all should try it
The things that you will now learn
About a protest and a riot
Firstly, have a purpose
Just random shouting, that's persay
If you do not have a topic
Then all the new folks go away
Throwing bricks at coppers
Breaking windows on the street
Is this a sign of protest
Or is it idiots in heat
No signage, and no speakers
Just random yelling for a cause
This isn't a good protest
Just breaking random laws
A protest has a purpose
It presents a point of view
A riot is an ugly thing
Which one is right for you
MLK could run a protest
Make a point and get things done
All without a mob forcing
A cop to use his gun
The rules really are simple
Keep the young ones all at home
For people in glass houses
Should really not throw stones
A peaceful resolution
From a protest is the goal
But a riot is just aimless
It puts the city in a hole
Victims of a riot
Are not the ones who are to blame
They're just owners of the business'
Who get caught up in the game
Next time that you protest
Protest rioting instead
It will turn out for the better
And nobody will end up dead
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 11:36 PM UTC
This is a portrait of abandoment:
rusty spokes, faulty breaks, and negligent owners.
(I'm still lying on the sidewalk too, waiting for a reason to shift gears.)
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 10:21 PM UTC
We are renters
Living off leased land
Never land owners
Years of finances poured into revolving doors
and recycled down into intricate designs creeping beyond the
comprehension of the reasonable woman
(or man)
Why do we fear so much the need for one another?
Desperately flattening desire into hardened emotion
We can't even breathe properly anymore
Oozing smoke and conspiracies out of our pores;
anxiety became our lifeblood
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 1:29 AM UTC
Let me tell you a story about a busy steet in a busy city in a busy country in a busy world.
Somewhere near the end of this busy street in a busy city in a busy country in a busy world, there was a flowershop.
It was a lovely old place; an elegant building surrounded by beautiful gardens with daisies and daffodils and roses. It had bird baths where the cheery cardinals and bluejays stopped by for an afternoon splash, and even a sprinkler for the young children to run around in while their mommy's and daddy's were picking out pretty flowers.
Now, inside this flowershop, there were rows upon rows of pots filled with any type of plant you could imagine: dragonsnaps, lilies, zinnias, tulips, the whole lot. Baskets of flowers hung from the ceiling, overflowing with bright colours. Every once in a while, petals would rain down and the entire shop would look magical.
Everyday, people of all ages would dash into this flowershop. Men in suits, looking to find the perfect gift for their dates. Ladies in dresses, picking out just a little something to look nice in a vase on their dinner table. And of course, the gardeners, with their overalls and ***** fingers.
So, as I said, busy people on a busy street in a busy city in a busy country in a busy world would dash into this busy flowershop, then dash back out and get on with their busy lives. Always looking for the most ravishing type of flower, the ones that could catch your eye as soon as you entered the shop. Never focusing on anything else.
What no one realized was that there was a small flower placed near the back wall of the shop. It was never moved; always been in the same exact place ever since it arrived at the flowershop years and years ago. The owners had stopped watering it, so the flower was beginning to shrivel up. Most of the petals had fallen off and were now laying in a sad little pile on the ground, and the few that remained had turned the colour of black.
The little flower got sicker and sicker every day, but it never lost hope. Every time the suited man stopped in, or the lady with the dress, or the ***** gardener; the flower would use its last bit of strength to make itself noticed. It stood on its tippy toes, perking up and spreading its wilted petals and frail stem as much as it could.
No one saw.
Then, one day, when the owner was sweeping the floor of the flowershop, he saw something near the back wall. Something broken. Crumpled. Blackened. Ugly. Dead. Something that once was beautiful until it stopped being noticed; stopped being loved.
You see, in a busy flowershop on a busy street in a busy city in a busy country in a busy world, no one's ever going to notice a wallflower until it wilts.
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 6:47 PM UTC
Pretty Little Cup Cake Store:
I walk through the door.
Somehow I think it will
Cheer me up.
A white iced-pink sprinkled cupcake
Will help me forget.
While unwrapping the trendy black and baby blue doted baking paper
Will bring back the past again.
But, even I know it is a ruse
A joke I play on myself.
You know the owners are some super hot soccer moms whose family invested in their latest project.
Those **** bakers with pretty white aprons
And size two retro-pink waitress uniforms;
Smiling and cooing at the lavender infused cake
That makes this treat go down so smooth.
A gluten-free icing with a garnish of kumquat.
This will land their pictures on the local news.
I am not a size two.
I will just as soon eat a nutty-buddy by Little Debbie
But, this trendy cupcake cafe, makes me feel I am one of those
Pretty ladies in the retro pink waitress uniform.
Kinda like a celebration, for a party of one.
I am not a hot pretty stick chick
I will buy four, five or six of those pretty cupcakes.
Pretending I am buying a hostess gift.
But, the truth.....
My husband forgot that we married
8 years ago this day.
I will pay too much for too little product: but the cake box is cute
I will sit in my car
Eating, till my teeth hurt.
I will rationalize; that I will cleanse tomorrow.
I will go home.
He will ask how I am, while staring at the TV.
"Shussh" he will say, "I'm trying to hear."
There is no use to remind him
He will play the tired "I'm-in-the-dog-house game."
I prefer stuffing four, five or six pretty little cupcakes
Into my mouth then listening
To his tired apologies, weak little lies and false promises of a planned
Surprise.
Instead; I will go to my room; then my private bath:
I will stick my fingers down my throat
And cough up my life.
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 7:27 PM UTC
People were dancing
while others would sing,
In the midst of the action,
Church bells would ting
And they would tong.
It was always a familiar song.
And an old man in black
Tells us of the faith we all lack.
I am guilty of that infraction.
Because I can see
That the multiple hells
Lasting forever in this world
Has been brought to us, and bound
By our greedy owners.
That is the meaning.
After all of the spoken and written word,
We must suffer for one man's treason.
Our redemption is no man's call.
Oct 26, 2011
Oct 26, 2011 at 5:42 PM UTC
House maid
I was told that a house maid was someone that you paid.
A person. A stranger. A worker.
Someone that you don't really know.
Someone that you are estranged to.
Someone that simply cleans up after you.
You can't really complete sentences to them,
because when you look them in the eye, you only see a worker.
Seeing that honestly this person is beneath and worth only your filth.
That treating them decent would make them more.
That's not what you want, you want to see them as your servant.
While lying that you think of them as family.
Coming in and out of your house daily.
They only have time to clean up after your family.
When they come home to their own mess, there's nothing left.
Energy they used to ease your life, was the energy to rebuild their own.
Without energy all they have is the ability to rinse and repeat the cycle.
Now while I act like your house maid.
I no longer see you as the family members I maybe had.
but the estranged owners that now I have.
You are not simply my boss, but the people that own my life.
When I come and go out of my room to clean yours.
I see only the people and things that belong to strangers.
I am a live in house maid.
The only difference from me and a house maid is that they get paid.
You owning my life and all else, simply reminds me that I am no maid.
That simply put, I am most likely your slave.
and what a difficult place to be,
when I used to be your son.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 8:59 PM UTC
Windows high or low, windows sing or woe (if they could effect sounds)
Windows are protestants of peace; often the mediator between the inside and the out
They tirelessly shield us from the rain and sun, the dust and even noise, sometimes the wind itself too; so things don't topple over
There are times you open them, when you look out and think of an adventure out
There are also times you close them, when you seek some respite
Windows, if anything, are the forgotten heroes of time
They are your guides, your decision-making helpers, as is the Spirit
Their panes (pains) are to be taken care of, wiped regularly for absolute clarity
They nudge, with the help of wind sometimes, dying not to be ignored
They crave interaction with its user, oh if only our owners knew they cry
Knowing how to operate them for full utilisation is truly, a skill
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 10:35 PM UTC
oh right...
back in h'america it's called
patriotism -
but 'ere, over, Here -
it's called nationalism...
back on the old continent
where and when all politics
is far-right mantra
and then you have
your Victoria and Abdul -
love the curry...
but like the **** said...
i'd prefer the aura and sauna
of the...
don't get me wrong:
i love the food...
but watching the Indian caste
system?
of Indians employing slaves
to build their upper-middle-class homes?
more tanned?
oh, you mean the Sri Lankan
or the Bangladeshi poor ********
sorry... i thought all slave
owners were white...
no?
oh...
alright...
**** you then!
because?
next time you ask...
i'll do what the Nazis did to the ********
i'll twist the star of David sideways...
exposing the prayer mat
and an opened book...
and, as far as i am concerned,
Islam is equivalent to the bubonic plague...
now...
compare the geographic literature
and spot the quarantine areas on a map
that constitutes Europe.
i'd rather die...
than fiddle with a phallus for
a taste of the Arabian quasi
harem orchestra of... absolute...
********
Arabian women?
fat hands...
their hands are too fat...
they have to inter-breed to
get rid of their
farmers' market of
fudge fingers and knuckles...
Arabian women expose
what is the most **** aspect
of a woman's body...
their hands...
Arab women have pork chops
for fingers...
and i'm not even sorry
making this observation...
fatty extensions
that you wish could at least
succumb to the esteem
of a pork head terrine.
Arab women can wear their niqab,
or whatever the hell they wear...
one problem...
FAT..... HANDS...
FAT.... FINGERS...
hell, hide them...
these women are worth half the erection's
worth in the *********** market of
feminine hands...
Arab women are no possessed with
geisha hands... porcelain architecture...
they're not tender... slight, polite...
the hands of Arab women are
the hands of European women...
who have a legitimate sway on arable
land, that is fertile with either
potatoes or cabbage;
well...
fat fingers eager to harvest ginger
(roots) -
what can i say...
no matter the diamond,
or the European *****
the hand is still looking
readily available to milk a ******* camel.
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 8:32 PM UTC
Migrants on highways-- hunger and need
In their eyes,
No argument, no system,
Need
Men fought for wage
Work for thirty--
Twenty-five--
Twenty
I’m hungry for work--
The kids see
They can’t run aroun’
They bloated up
--I’ll work--
for a little piece of good wages
Prices up
Great owners
Glad they bring more people in
Wages went down
We’ll have serfs again
--Blackout Poem Chapter Twenty-One--
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 11:11 PM UTC
The streets are clear, we're hydrophobic
Hoods propped by hats and socks pulled high;
The rain brings peace to the agoraphobic
Puddles form moats and clouds fill the sky.
Splash, droplets hit the window,
chauffeured by the gale outside.
Squint your eyes and flash back
boats tilt starboard, with the tide.
The captain shouts to the decks, paranoid
'Clear the decks and brace for impact'
Without turbulence we are disenfranchised
Boredom becomes us when we're boring.
Shake it off and stare at the dot to dot
the residual carving of water as it slides
Another droplet falls beside it, parallel
it aligns, growling thunder overhead.
Without stirring we are robotic workforces
Without awaking we are left inside
The constructs created for us, by corporate-
conglomerate elitist-psychopaths.
Two drops of water on the window
simmer red with burning anger.
Crash lightening sears the sky
Rage becomes you, girders melt.
The starry night undercurrent, flings
us backwards, never up, as democracies
which seek to serve sink into a sea of
stocks and shares, the wall street journal
sits atop the captains lobby, economies
were meant to tumble as the working classes
fumble for bread, men in suits gaggle
and toast to the millions they left for dead.
Resistance is futile, when eighty-five
of the richest suit owners sit on currency
that was meant for the three point five
billion who aren’t driven by gluttony.
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 12:51 PM UTC
Monet was painting up my vision
while the droves were driven out.
We stepped out to the derision
of a tenor waterspout.
The town outside is dancing
in the ruddy neon hues
and I’m ****** whilst Amsterdam-ing
by the slam-dunk cognac blues.
And a cap was shaking coppers
in an out cove by the way,
where instruments and owners
had begun to play.
The bar stools are all swaying
whilst the festival ensues,
and I’m ****** whilst Amsterdam-ing
by the slam-dunk cognac blues.
With the rhythm of the rimjhim
and the stamping our feet
we sing our drunken-whim hymn
whilst we stagger down the street.
And we had sunken five; still sinking
Im strung out, slammed, and stinking
Four sheets to the wind and freaking
about what I had to lose.
so that’s when I got to thinking
had an inkling to the linking
between my errant drinking
and the slam-dunk cognac blues…
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 6:37 PM UTC
On autumns ground I walk,
As winters snow sky blindingly glows.
In the thylacines footsteps i tread,
On a path the future presents.
Sitting in a cafe, I realise,
The tea I have just had, was built from a billion lives.
Who tasted the leaves.
Who told the others.
Who invented the farm.
Who planted the leaves.
Who planted the seeds.
Who made them grow.
Who picked them.
Who told the nation.
Who created the plough, made the grow more effectively, created the axe, learned to chop a tree, learned to shape it, learned wood floated, came up with the ships, made the first boat, made it sail, told the others, discovered nations, learned their language, spoke it, found what they wanted, got tea, got it back, gave birth to 200,000 generations who split off as cup makers, baristas, cow farmers, milkmen, sugar farmers, sugar packers, cafe owners and tea farmers.
'CHEERS!'
We are indeed standing on the shoulders of giants, but the weight will build on ours.
Swimming the route laid out by the Baiji.
Oct 21, 2017
Oct 21, 2017 at 12:14 PM UTC
Red birds flew into my window every day for years, especially during Spring
and I asked my mother
what they were called.
“Cardinals,” she said,
“but I think they’re called to you,
I think—
I think they are for you.”
“Mom, I’ll give that one a name.”
And I did.
——-
I still see cardinals.
The red shocks me,
like a bloodstain in a new house.
——-
When my father almost died,
I was not worried and I did not ask many questions,
only saw his body in the bed, a green-blue-yellow-black mess,
a broken-bone nest,
with sticky pads stuck to his skin, sending electricity to his nerves, lest
they forget themselves.
——-
He had the car turned into a cube, and it is somewhere now,
the cage collapsed,
the rust blooming inside of itself.
The day my father chose to drive into a wall,
going somewhere from 100 to 200 miles an hour (I never asked him), they dubbed him Rocketman.
He flew.
The car toppled and twisted and regurgitated what it could;
it was an illness,
and it could have killed us.
My father is okay.
——-
My father went to an air show months ago to see how those streak clouds are made by planes,
and there was an accident
and he saw peoples’ bodies lying and dying.
He told my mother how he saw hands separate from their owners.
He has not told me these things.
——-
The cardinals have started to scare my father.
He sees them too
like bloodstains in a new house.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 2:29 AM UTC
Shimmer and flow
Wood Lake at sunset seems to emit a soft glow.
Waves like edges move and dip
Feathering out, tumble and flip.
I hear the giggling of happy little girls
Dunking heads underwater and wetting their curls.
Scraggly young boys jump off a long pier
Showing their bravado that they have no fear.
Mallard ducks and tan little birds soar and float.
Passing patient people fishing off docks, or in a boat.
As I watch natures glory a gentle breeze caresses my sleeve.
I am at peace with myself with nothing to grieve.
I am very grateful for the time I spent here.
It gave me the chance to think with a mind that is crystal clear.
I was in my own world relaxing on my inflatable chair
With the sunshine as my companion floating here and there.
This quaint little lakehouse is a Godsend to friends
Who need some time to heal, make changes or amends.
The owners are loving in spirit, generous and kind.
They open their home as a haven for the heart, soul and mind.
Copyright *CindyRenouf @2010
www.stumbleupon.com/stumbler/Cindy1128
Jul 27, 2010
Jul 27, 2010 at 7:32 PM UTC
Who here loves *******
I mean, dogs
Obviously…
Immature people.
I love ***** shows.
Seeing them all groomed to perfection, not a hair out off place
A shame some cute faces will just go to waste.
While some may whine and some may resist,
If it’s not monetised, well… does it exist?
Lined up in a row
Look at them go
Praying and hoping to win best in show, just for a itty bitty wittle headpat, while the owner gets useful things like money.
Cause a dog can’t use money, that’s just silly
Nails perfectly trimmed
Intelligence dimmed
Watch how they walk with a little trot, so proud of themselves,
its like they forgot they only have the same rights as their owners in 6 countries.
But dogs don’t need equal working rights, that’s just silly
Look its absurd
When they whine all their words
Clogging up space with their frilly likes and their silly ums that totally like inconveniences like everyone because they have to um like listen to a ***** talk for um longer than they like totally like um have to like ***
But they aren’t so bad, especially when you’ve had
A ***** that wont behave, a ***** that’s gone mad
Howling at the moon with their wandering wombs
It’s like there’s no party, only balloons.
If a ***** wears pants, do they go on all fours
Or do they get sent home for showing more than their paws.
Gasp at how they growl, protecting their hairy bodies, which, silly them, they don’t own.
They must be culled
Anger dulled
Knock in their thick skulls they are nothing but a *****
We all love ***** shows, we love the ******* even more.
So come on ladies, get down on all fours.
Feb 23, 2022
Feb 23, 2022 at 4:37 PM UTC