"patron" poems
Love is like serving your customers,
Leave them with good service and experiences,
and they'll give you trust and loyalty like no other.
Get the technical know-hows.
Meet the demands and know the points and marks,
To truly satisfy your customer's needs and wants.
Like loving a person,
You need to go ahead and seek for innovation.
for competitors are just around, making their observations.
Loving is satisfying,
what's the point of begging your demands,
If one should not adjust, or else better disband.
And I am a loyal customer.
I am a patron of her love and care,
she gives me more than enough of what she shares.
And I am a lucky customer.
For she makes me feel most important,
Everywhere we go and everything as applied.
She leaves every experiences,
with glitters and stars in my eyes.
That's why I love her much, and I cannot deny.
The joy of contentment,
Lies in this constant ever changing quest,
where we are moving, for each one's true happiness.
Feb 21, 2011
Feb 21, 2011 at 5:58 PM UTC
At least with Solemn Differences sing
Honouring Friends of Great Cheer celebrate
Your arm on her lap; The other on him
And with a Flash these Blue Knights consecrate
Jolly, so Potent turn Tan into Red
That pleasant alarm Blue Oracles see
And guess which Debate your Incarnate fed
Whether you are or whether not to be
Ready for Cause to the Next Big Event
Telling yourself to Inspiration run
Foresaw this Scope: Friendship and Teamwork's meant
But all of this time it was just for Fun.
Seriousness Adore, Someone licks the Tip
In your Patron; Which was really your lip.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 2:23 AM UTC
sometimes i wonder if god keeps a record
of all the times i have been left,
all the times i have been unable to leave.
i wonder if he thinks to himself,
"when will she learn?"
as if he feels my heartache too.
i picture god with a furrowed brow,
hunched over a typewriter,
beginning me again and again,
a mountain of crumpled paper at his feet.
but somehow -
he always ends up at the same point in the story
where i am all ****** palms
and half-hearted hallelujahs
propped up on bruised knees.
spitting up blood & teeth at his feet screaming,
"IS THAT ALL YOU'VE GOT?"
but he doesn't answer.
and i catch myself wondering if the silence
is his way of punishing me for making a deity out of you.
after all, the bible says he is a jealous god.
i could've sworn there was a verse somewhere
that said you weren't allowed to love anyone other than me.
but now that i think about it,
i probably took it out of context.
if i could add a parable to those already existing,
it would be how your chest
felt like church under my head,
and how i thought to myself,
"this is how it would be if he loved me back."
or how you fled my bedroom like a crime scene.
i am still bleeding.
i won't tell you how many times
i cracked my heart in half
trying to be what you wanted.
how my lips on your skin felt judas.
now i am waiting for god to begin me once more,
hoping he'll leave you out of the plot this time
because i don't think i could stand to lose you again.
see, rumor has it he knew you'd leave
and has been trying to make it up to me
since before we'd even met.
my song is one of repentance.
the wood finish from abandoned pews
rotting under my fingernails.
i made sacrifices you didn't ask for.
i have never known
whether my inability to abandon people
is more a strength or a weakness
but so far everyone i've ever loved
has turned into an exit wound,
and myself into a flickering no vacancy sign.
- m.f.
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 6:04 PM UTC
The one is a myth
I bid farewell long ago,
Along with the illusion
Of lasting bliss.
That was a fairytale, I know-
Concocted to charm little girls
Whose parents could not bear
To break it to them
That they would never be a princess.
But maybe it was not a total lie.
Perhaps there are many ones
Just waiting for
The right moment in time
To stop you with a smile,
Maybe even stay a while.
Then when the season changes,
The one will too,
And you will be blue,
But then you will find someone new.
Is it like going to the library?
My heart is a bestseller-
Someone new takes it for a spin
Until a different story catches his whim.
I was the right book at the right time,
The patron has a wandering mind-
It is not a crime.
It is not like going to the library,
Because they check out my heart,
Then return it again-
But they rip out their favorite page
To keep as a souvenir of the adventure-
Because to them, that is all it is:
Another adventure, another conquest,
Another stop on the road to where they are going.
They do it without knowing
The trail of tears they leave
And the hot fire of rage.
The one is a myth.
There are over seven billion people here,
But that does not mean that for everyone
A prince or princess shall appear
Standing underneath the tower window
Calling, "Let down your hair!"
Hey, I never said it was fair.
Jul 30, 2018
Jul 30, 2018 at 11:07 PM UTC
Mozart,
deaf,
died, eventually.
Picasso, pervert, died; Whitney, Winehouse, drugs, dead; Elvis, Methamphetamine, died
(on the toilet).
Van Gogh,
missing an earlobe,
died.
Plath,
head in an oven,
in front of her kids,
Woolf
Patron saint of insanity, I guess
waded into a river and-
River. River Phoenix. Drugs.
Natalie Merchant wrote that song about him in 1995.
Flash forward.
Me, twenty-one, drunk.
Proprietor of a collection of lackluster poems.
Sold their small, nonbinary soul to the Devil
in exchange for a fortune,
gone.
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 6:49 PM UTC
Ang haplos ay malamig
di man naninigas
nanatili walang kibo
Sa paghagok ay naninibago
-walang malay parang nag-iidlip
Isigaw ang pangalan ng mga santo, patron at lalo na ng Diyos
-magbigay pugay
Ang pulso muna ay hanapin mula ulo hanggang binti
Ginto at pilak, walang katumbas
Ang hinirang na anak Niya'y di kinalimutan
Parirala ng buhay ay papintig-pintig
sa ibang dimensyon na ng daigdig
Tuldukan ang kasulatan sa Libro ng mga Buhay
Sapagkat buhat-buhat ang maputlang kamay
Sa kuko matatanto habang nakaratay
Nagiginawan pati ang laman na nasa hukay
Libu-libong ektarya ang pagpapasyalan
Maraming kakaibiganin maging sinuman
Nakikipagkapalagayan ng loob ang lahat-nagpapatawad
Pagbubuklodin ng pagsinta
Nililok ang estatwa sa dibdib ay namalagi
Paalalang ipirmi, di iwaksi
Samut-saring emosyon ng dilim ang ginamit sa pag-ukit
Dec 14, 2018
Dec 14, 2018 at 6:20 PM UTC
Unang pagtingin ay hindi lang paghanga
Sa nag-uumpisang ganda ni Dessa
Nangingimi pa na ngumiti
Kapag maglalakad ay kailangan akayin
Diwata sa katauhan ng dalagang-bukid
Karaagan na nais iguhit
Ipagdasal sa mga patron at santo nang hapit
Sana'y makarating ang dinadaing
Tanglaw ng bituin sa umaga
Nakasisilaw na silab
Nang nag-aalinlangan na sa nadarama
bakit inaalala pa ang larawan niya
Pakawalan ang salarin
nang nadakip ng tinatakasang damdamin
Aniban sana ng Reyna-
Abogado na magdedepensa
Kung mangyari na masiil
at wala na makapagtataguan
ipagtatapat sa hukuman-
sa pusong hukom
na nagkasala sa pag-iibigan
Feb 19, 2019
Feb 19, 2019 at 8:39 PM UTC
A coffee shop afternoon can say it looms significant
In the steamer’s sweet humidity
And the idle legs pace for more
I hear the whispers of world-changers and gossip mix
Local color of a quiet little town.
Sit humble and lean, a fixture ‘till showtime
And ask lines around just we’ve they’ve been
And who they’ve seen.
There’s a poetry in the patron, come
My gaze permits and intervenes
Its narrative and scheme, in lover’s hand enweaved.
Graphite plays its frustrate part the writer
Seated far, far in a blissful nadir
Bristles in his pony tail like drawers end to no avail.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 11:44 PM UTC
She loved her special prince
Her soul belonged to Maelon
But her father would not allow it so
For she had been promised to wed another
She prayed to her God to forget her true love
And an Angel came down to visit her
Granting a sweet potion to erase his memory
So that she could forget him forever
But it also meant that Maelon would be trapped
To be encased within a block of ice
Then her God decided to grant Dwynwen three wishes
And she knew for what she had to do
She wished for Maelon to be thawed and saved
She wished for the hopes and the dreams
Be granted for all of the true lovers
But the third wish, she would never marry
She formed her convent on Llandwyn
This is where she stayed, until Death took her
The remains of her church can still be seen
She will always be our patron saint of lovers
5th Century saint ... copyright Chris Smith 2010
Jan 24, 2010
Jan 24, 2010 at 6:11 AM UTC
How Sweetingly Rare to see this Advise,
The Westfold Bard who shares this Ancient Art
But Performed it Better to his Concise
And took Definition for his Good Part
I just knew you now. So what of belate
As Mentored Dolphins with Water's Tie befriend
I found this Artist; This Cornerstone Great
And Hope your Elder's Tongue will never end
You, Sir, confirmed my Efforts; This I Bow
And hand you the Medal I sought to seek
I am no Patron; Neither plan so now
Only the Purest Abe in Honest meek.
Now please Sing on, and Live to Peak Content
I write my Sighs; But these Praises I meant.
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 2:32 AM UTC
O God, O Venus, O Mercury, patron of thieves,
Give me in due time, I beseech you, a little tobacco-shop,
With the little bright boxes
piled up neatly upon the shelves
And the loose fragrant cavendish
and the ****
And the bright Virginia
loose under the bright glass cases,
And a pair of scales not too greasy,
And the ****** dropping in for a word or two in passing,
For a flip word, and to tidy their hair a bit.
O God, O Venus, O Mercury, patron of thieves,
Lend me a little tobacco-shop,
or install me in any profession
Save this damn’d profession of writing,
where one needs one’s brains all the time.
3.6k
Shimmer highlights
Glitter heels
Make me dress
To his appeal
Make me a magnet
Of attraction
Objectify me
A distraction
Let me be an unholy thing
touched
Besmirched
On your whim
Be my prince
On my bed
I’m sleeping now
Between your legs
Saint Malady
Patron of the honest house
Enter through the backdoor
And let it be nothing more
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 6:02 AM UTC
I cower in your shadow,
shivering despite any acuity of my own.
(your words are like loaded icicles,
beretta rounds fired through my false logic
and fake religion;
it scares me.)
The truth is I'm not fearless,
I'm pale and lily-livered and only so heathen as the other stars.
(maybe it's good you're in college,
it's closer than you were growing up.
when we were young,
you were short yet rough.
I was the younger,
and, my shepherd, you were faithful;
I only got lost 8 times.)
I don't think I ever really knew you
in any possible perception.
(I know I knew the talk of you,
the hustle and bustle at home and abroad
of your mighty intellect,
your crushing wit,
your driving polities
a war machine and
your gleaming smile
its patron god.)
How could I ever compare, though,
to the goddess of mind and body, brains and war?
(the truth is I am but a defiant priest,
crooked nose and
ashy eyes.
I think the reason,
even today,
for all my insecurities was due to you.)
Appeasement was a method used by the vain and weak
to protect against the humble yet brilliant.
(I feel your ********** take me over,
I feel it acid-wash into my skin,
de-porous my bones
and my imagination structure.
I feel it sink me up to the top,
drowning me in your air,
in your sky and your perfect chemistry.
your burning gold catches me,
smothers me in hands too big
for such a small person.)
How is it you are so tall
when you come up to my chin?
Why is it that I shiver and shake at your light foot falls?
Answer to the shadows
and my cowering will not respond.
Feb 27, 2010
Feb 27, 2010 at 11:07 PM UTC
The Lost Bird In The Sky
The Lost Bird In The Sky
Somewhere there sits a lone man
at a bar filled with lowlifes
lost in his thoughts
mad at the world
and at her
it's eight in the morning
and dawn is long past
and its eve's seat he'll now nurse
across the bar room
through the blinds, some sun peeks in
over the seedy rug
the sun drying the last cleansing
of a patron's puke
the musky smell the last of his worries
his eyes take in the bar
he intimates a hand gesture to other patrons
and a meaningless nod
indifferent to being friendly
matching the terrain
of the other lowlifes at the bar
all on crutches, it seems
on the wall
hangs pictures of storm clouds
black and ominous as his life
the first of his worries
him and his head always drooping
or were those pictures in his imagination
the music box plays a sad song
smoke gets in your eye
followed by lies
another sad song
stories of his life
accentuated
grabbing at him
his worries
her effect
how poetic, he smiles
him in effigy
through the smoke in his eyes
and more beer
he can clearly see her
with a voodoo doll in hand
sticking needles in him
maybe deservingly
if only he could tell her a story
he thinks better of his thoughts
and a pending epilogue
thirsting for sunshine instead
his eyes glance up at the women bartender
plain, plump, playful, pierced
sunshine for the moment
his lips, and tongue curl
his feet touch earth, seeing if it's still there
as she lumbers back and forth serving drinks
her backside sticking up like a beehive
and for a moment he wants to be a bee
he plays with his beer bottle
running his hands past it's neck
caressing, taking a sip
thinking of his past love
the softness of her neck
*****
her essence
of how pleasing it would be to touch her
her nest
if only he could be a bird for a moment
fly and be in flight with her
together in the sky
making baby birds
their innocence and first tweets
that would have been nice
now ... landed at a hole in a wall
his eyes and thoughts keep soring
he grabs more beer
more beer
pausing to grab some honey with his eyes
he keeps playing with his loose change
spinning a quarter
like watching her pirouette
again and again
she had that effect on him
Logan Robertson
11/15/17
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 12:33 AM UTC
It's a shame how you must have aspired me to become the child you always wanted
in the months and days before I was born,
before reality had its chance to construct the person I would become.
when the happy news was first heard of a new child in a new world,
who would be brave and cheerful and kind
and above all sporty,
the kind that would make an impression,a born leader and dutiful follower
a proud patron of the family name.
We would have much in common and I would remind you of yourselves
at such an impressionable age
and I would achieve all you had hoped for.
But perhaps this is the great tragedy that parents stumble upon in this constant letdown of a life.
You were lucky that I was an easy child,never keeping you up at night and never causing trouble,
but the fact that I was lazy,introspective,morbid,
cowardly,unattentive,unhelpful,bookish,obsessive,
uninvolving and unsatisfied
made me realise how much I must have let you down.
I sigh too much,I read too much,I'm so full full of sarcasm that I cannot take anything seriously,
I never want to be the focus of attention,I never eat enough,I dont care about trends,
I dont care if people comprehend me.
I must be impossible to love.
Thats why I have decided to never have children.
They could never be what I would expect of them.
I could never love someone who I was ultimately responsible for,
someone who I could indoctrinate into my own idea of happiness.
Jun 28, 2012
Jun 28, 2012 at 2:53 PM UTC
THE TRUE STORY OF THE EASTER BUNNY
you see, way back in the 1300s, there was this man who bred rabbits, and he was dedicated to his job, so much in fact,
he would go about starting to dress up as a colourful bunny around April every year, around the full moon, and on the
evening of easter Saturday, this man, would take off in his rundown jet plane to deliver hand painted eggs, painted by himself
to all the boys and girls of this land, and if each kid was very good, he will give the one of the kids a very rare chocolate bunny
which was very hard to find in these times, every kid pushed each other over to be the chosen one for this delicious bunny, and
the man dresses all the rabbits of the land, in colourful clothes and a easter bell around their necks, to warn the foxes that
can lurk about, you see on this man’s route were 345 houses to deliver each egg to, and some of the kids were still up, and he was
nice to them, giving them 3 eggs instead of 2, you see he always over-packs, because each kid wanted to stay up for the
arrival of the easter bunny-man, as he arrived at their houses, and maybe, that is the reason why it was a nightmare to get
the kids to go to bed now, well they do go to bed, but the easter bunny-man made the kids so happy, the kids went to bed
when he left, after that he dropped in at various inns around the town to deliver the painted eggs to each patron drinking in the inns
and mind you, he had a lot of great stories to tell each patron in the inn, about his wonderful adventures. then he drove off toward
the two farms of the town, and in the 1300s, the farms housed mostly poor people, ya know people doing it tough, so to speak, and
he dropped his easter eggs to the farmers and their kids and performed a few songs for the farmers like “candyman” and a rhyme which was
easter easter what’ll we do
give an egg to me and i will give one rot you
you see i am happy to really make you
the happiest farmer this easter will produce
you see these are painted eggs, i like them yeah
the colours are beautiful, really, i swear
come on kiddies try and grab more
easter easter how are you
and he played many many more easter related songs and rhymes, and the farmers liked to call him the rabbit ******* and he had a great night
as he did this every easter saturday, and at 5 am on easter Sunday morning, he finished his route and and spent easter sunday with his family,
and whether you believe this story or not, this is how easter started in my eyes
HAPPY EASTER FELLAS
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 4:47 AM UTC
Torrent of light and river of the air,
Along whose bed the glimmering stars are seen
Like gold and silver sands in some ravine
Where mountain streams have left their channels bare!
The Spaniard sees in thee the pathway, where
His patron saint descended in the sheen
Of his celestial armor, on serene
and quiet nights, when all the heavens were fair.
Not this I see, nor yet the ancient fable
Of Phaeton’s wild course, that scorched the skies
Where’er the hoofs of his hot coursers trod;
But the white drift of worlds o’er chasms of sable,
The star-dust, that is whirled aloft and flies
From the invisible chariot-wheels of God.
3k
Born of fear, fueled by anger
This resentment I feel for you
Creates abscesses on my soul
Poison filled sacs of toxic hate which
Rise like bile in my gullet
To choke my spirit
Much like the dead alcoholic
Who's aspirated on
His own ***** and phlegm
A bloated purple carcass
Devoid of autonomy of spirit
Self-obsession robs me
Of conscious truth
Fear - that your indictments
Against me will be brought
Before the grand jury of
The universe and I will be found lacking
Resentment - at you for not becoming
A willing patron of
My brand of truth
Anger - at me for my own failings
Brought to light
Secrets I can no longer hide
While my defects are
Glaringly obvious to
One as enlightened as
You purport to be
Did not your path to
Spiritual perfection
Contain the blueprint to
Correct your vain sins of glory and
Indignant self-deception?
Is not your lofty status
Grand enough to look upon
My humiliated soul with
Something less than contempt?
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 7:07 PM UTC
The sweet summer sun shines on me
On a quiet bench in the city park
With my guitar and a softened voice
I write a song about a broken heart
And the way home is lit with sunglass eyes
Reflecting back the summer day
All I see is good and bad
Without much else to do or say
Steam rises from a lakefront balcony
And some react to an inside joke
Some days are meant for misery
But today is meant for calm and hope
And my way home is like a picture frame
With kisses on suntanned cheeks
All I hear is my mother's song
On a day when the air is sweet
A patron sells his portrait piece
But he'll paint you for a fee
With a bigger nose and bigger smile
That you can hang up for all to see
And my way home is smooth and still
Like an easy feeling country song
All I know is I am who I am
And you can always ride along
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 11:50 PM UTC
After Danez Smith's Dinosaurs in the Hood
Let's make a movie called Lil Peep In Heaven
Transpotting meets 8 Mile meets six xanax bars
There should be a scene where Lil Peep climbs up a few flights of Stairs and makes it to the pearly gates, because there has to be pearly Gates
Don't let Bella Thorne star in this.
In her version she tongue-kisses Peep,
Chews scenery in platform boots and bright pink
Ripped jeans. **** that, Peep has a tattoo removed
By a saint, his laser is proof of all that is good
I want a scene where Peep throws his pill bottles
At Ganesha, a scene where Allah tells Peep he'll
Rot in his grave forever if he doesn't stop
His antics. Don't let GothBoiClique hold a
Funeral for Gustav. I don't want any of that
Sentimental **** about love and how life is too
Short. This movie is about a man/boytoy/ugly and dying thing,
Restarting his life with all the real-ass gods and patron saints and
Deities
Of every religion and every afterlife
I don't want some funny, dreadhead living in LA with a tattooed stick And poke commanding presence. This is not a vehicle for someone to Play Peep, this is a vehicle for Peep to play himself.]
I want his ******* white or not, praying. I want them far from their Knees.
I want Lil Peep to ride in a Benz truck down from the clouds, Screaming with spittle flying from his mouth the entire time.
I want Layla to post another video of Gustav slapping pans together Like a child. And I want Peep to see it all.
But this can't be a death movie. This can't be a death movie. This Movie can't be dismissed because it's too dark, or that a dead man is Playing the leading role. This movie can't be about crying, or cause people to cry. This movie can't be about a long history of emo coming To an end. This movie can't be about dying.
No one can say Peep is a pill-popping ******* who deserved his death Who wouldn't say it to his cadaver. No big pharmacy jokes in this movie. No bar, capsules or gels in the heroes, and Lil Peep never dies & Lil Peep never dies & Lil Peep never dies. Besides, the only reason I want to make this movie is for the first scene anyway; Lil Peep climbing up the cloudy stairs, his eyes dilated & empty
the heaven before him filled with congratulations
Nov 17, 2017
Nov 17, 2017 at 10:47 PM UTC
The bartender says “It’s time to go”
“Because the moon has clamored high
And the sun was banished low.”
They were only speaking to me
I raised my glass, took a swig
belch, “i’m not even empty.”
They grab and toss it in a bin
The crash of glass, the waste of gin
Pollutes the air and that is when
They spoke. It was stern it was cold
“Get out right now! Before I leave
Your chest all gaped. Your chest all holed.”
“I’m a patron,yet you’ve decided
To push me out into the darkness
Lonesome and unguided”
“There are other bars out there,”
“No need to bother us, They said
I bit my tongue so as not to swear.
I made a choice, a simple choice
To sit and stay at the counter.
I cleared my throat and raised my voice:
“Do what you must. Let it occur,
But understand this, we will not be deterred.”
Jun 29, 2022
Jun 29, 2022 at 4:04 PM UTC
i.
Alow downward Reyna, humanity hunger's and kill's,
Red liquid they do spill, despoiling, toiling, taking
Lucifer's fill;
ii.
We canst only watcheth queen, as their working's and dream's,
Get untied by the string's, of the fine unseen line, of the principalities and power's.
iii.
Henceforth the hour's, shalt be as fading flower's, they shalt seeith their government's and darkened power's; falleth as the star's, men who knoweth none boundaries, God shalt rattle the mountain's and deep, as a harlot to her patron. Though the patron's sleep.
iv.
We shalt endureth this paining moment amour', the cosmic chronograph is opening door's; erelong love, erelong amour', we shalt sit at a feasting table, wherein the beau monde that hast Satan's barcoded label, shalt not perch. The flame shalt quench it's thirst, as recreation below us takes it's course. For ourn creator spoke this Jane, in the beginning. The world's lost it's way, it needeth cleansing from the sinning. As we shalt be restored by reconnecting on higher planes. To be reborn, in the spirit again.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley ( Filipino rose) dedicated
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 7:18 PM UTC
For William and Meredith
For treatment of panic and anxiety disorders,
short-acting anxiolytics are generally recommended
to provide temporary bursts of clarity
but should be reassessed periodically for
usefulness and concerns regarding tolerance,
dependence,
and abuse.
Xanax releases dopamine into the brain
to function as a neurotransmitter to send signals
between nerve cells
including reward motivated behavior
and pathways known to reinforce addictive neuronal activity
Perhaps to build her,
you had to break yourself
amongst the glass of that summer day.
Leave her waiting for your hair to peek
around a weathered edge
toward a forgotten living room corner
You are still her Patron Saint.
A long shadow cast across a small ghost.
She still screams at the sky to stop raining
beats her fists down the path
to the house of death
unceasing, and changeless.
Prodding a dull,
familiar
wound.
One that leaves its mark,
with pain felt more
from memory
than from anything else.
Withdrawal and rebound symptoms commonly occur and
necessitate a gradual reduction
to minimize the effects of discontinuation.
Not all withdrawal effects are evidence
of true dependence or withdrawal.
Recurrence may suggest no more
than the drug having the expected effect
and that,
in the absence of the drug,
the symptom has returned to pretreatment levels.
Dec 18, 2016
Dec 18, 2016 at 6:23 AM UTC
Death can do strange things,
like time-lapse photography,
undress those quite bored, or
make a patron saint out of a fool,
turning sleek idiots into monks
more mysterious than Rasputin.
What a place to drink, the casino
death runs, nothing fancy or beautiful,
a blind man called Dark Island
taking requests on a piano with keys
worn dull as bone handled knives.
A place the lost can find work, graceless
and not made in America without a living,
all these odd jobs death can do, like art,
factory smoke blown in the eyes of women
in Senegal making overalls for Walmart.
Aug 12, 2016
Aug 12, 2016 at 9:47 PM UTC