"presbyterian" poems
**† † †
A quorum of biblical scholars
turned their doubts into thousands of dollars.
Armed with Document Q
they revealed nothing new
but the dirt neath’ the white of their collars.
A proud “health & wealth” Oklahoman
was renowned as a gospel-tent showman.
While the scriptures he twisted,
their tithing assisted
his rise from poor hick to rich Roman.
A sexually diverse professor
(assured he was not a transgressor)
spoke only of openness
glossing sin’s brokenness;
rainbows and tolerance—yes sir.
A Mormon, who lost his own ephod
Realized he was running quite slipshod
and invoked Joseph Smith.
(Yes, it may be a myth—
but it’s not like misplacing your I-pod…)
A Christian whose faith was prophetic
held to views that were truly pathetic.
This crazed Pentecostal,
not quite an apostle,
had taken an End-Times emetic.
A sober and staid Presbyterian
was distrustful of thoughts millenarian.
After smoking some bud,
he awoke with a thud;
in his sleep he’d become Rastafarian.
A preacher who fleeced his disciples
overdrew his own balance of scruples.
He was finally captured
(defrocked and un-raptured)
and rent by his destitute pupils.
A sister who waxed Pentecostal,
mistook herself for an apostle.
Speaking pure glossolalia
she sure could regale ya’
with prophecy; crazy—but docile.
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 8:12 AM UTC
I thought the ***** would make me stop feeling it
But instead I just felt it more intensely.
I kissed a girl and I liked it
Not like that Katy Perry song describes.
I am not some **** straight girl with a boyfriend
Who is trying to impress other dudes at a washed up bar.
I just don't get it
Maybe I never will
How I can be some Christian child of God
And feel this simultaneously?
I will never understand
How some will continue to harp on the idea
That this whole spectrum is a plea for attention
And does not exist.
What the hell are they talking about?
Do they think I like walking around every day
With a stigma attached to my chest
Even though most people do not even know the truth?
Do they think I enjoy
Lying to my parents, day in and day out
Saying I am this pure, straight Presbyterian teen
Who's secrets are all out in the open?
There is a ton they do not know
This is just the tip of the iceberg.
Do they believe that I find pleasure in
Hiding a huge part of who I am
From my school, my church and my community?
They cannot judge me
That is God's job.
These are just a few of my classic gripes
About being a closeted bisexual
In a conservative family.
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 9:32 PM UTC
1591
The Bobolink is gone—
The Rowdy of the Meadow—
And no one swaggers now but me—
The Presbyterian Birds
Can now resume the Meeting
He boldly interrupted that overflowing Day
When supplicating mercy
In a portentous way
He swung upon the Decalogue
And shouted let us pray—
2.7k
Fashion designer Dame Trelise Cooper is holding her first show in Wanaka to help raise funds for the town's planned hospice.
The September 30 Theatre of Fashion event is being organised by Wanaka fashion store Escape Clothing owner Lucy Lucas and the Upper Clutha Hospice Trust and organisers hope to raise up to $30,000.
Trust fundraiser Bev Rudkin said the show was "such a coup for Wanaka".
Wanaka hasn't had anything like this before and we know Theatre of Fashion will be an exciting event."
The event will be held at the McRae family's Glendhu Station Woolshed and will showcase the Trelise Cooper Summer 2015/16 collection. It will also feature three Trelise Cooper 1950s-inspired installations.
The event includes an auction of donated items, with all proceeds going to the Upper Clutha Hospice Trust.
photo:www.marieaustralia.com/evening-dresses
Lucas lost her mother to cancer two years ago and says the hospice facility is especially important for the local community.
At the moment, Wanaka cancer patients and their families travel either to Clyde's Dunstan Hospital or Dunedin Hospital for hospice care.
The Upper Clutha Hospice Trust will be a tenant in the Presbyterian Support Otago and Mt Aspiring Retirement Village's proposed aged care/dementia facility on Cardrona Valley Road. Construction is scheduled later this year.
The trust is raising capital and operating costs for its patient rooms within the larger facility.
Lucas stocks Trelise Cooper in her shop and approached Dame Trelise to see if she was interested in helping the trust.
"Dame Trelise is incredibly generous with her time. She does a lot for community causes. Wanaka is so lucky to have her agree to holding this event, and for her to attend is even better. Guests are in for a treat. Trelise Cooper shows are always fantastic, with plenty of 'wow' factor," Lucas said.
Dame Trelise said she was only too happy to help: "Giving back to the community is something I have always believed in. It means a lot to me that my passion and the work that I do can be put towards something that really makes a difference . . . I have some very loyal customers in the South Island who have supported my label right from the beginning, and it feels great to be able to bring an event like this to them."
FAST FACTS
What: Theatre of Fashion inaugural show
When: 6.30pm, Wednesday September 30, 2015
Where: Glendhu Station Woolshed, Glendhu Bay
Cost: $65 per person or $75 for front row seats. Tickets from Escape Clothing, Ardmore Street, Wanaka, or the Upper Clutha Hospice Shop, Ballantyne Road. All proceeds to the Upper Clutha Hospice Trust.
- The Mirror
read more:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses
Jul 17, 2015
Jul 17, 2015 at 2:04 AM UTC
*(A message to you
Inspired by the THR Family)*
You came to us sick, frightened, confused
What happened next became international news.
We saw you so ill, with everything to lose
Our goal was to help you because that’s what we do.
Alone in a dark ICU room
We fought for your life, our team and you.
We cared for you kindly
No matter our fear
You thanked us each time that we came near.
As each day pressed on, you fought so hard
To beat the virus that dealt every card.
No matter how sick or contagious you were
We held your hand, wiped your tears, and continued our care.
Your family was close, but only in spirit
They couldn't come in; we just couldn't risk it.
Then the day came we saw you in there
We wiped tears from your eyes,
knowing the end was drawing near.
Then it was time, but we never gave up
Until the good lord told us he had taken you up.
Our dear Mr. Duncan, the man that we knew
Though you lost the fight, we never gave up on you.
All of us here; at Presby and beyond
Lift our hats off to you, now that you’re gone.
You touched us in ways that no one will know
We thank you kind sir for this chance to grow.
May you find peace in heaven above
And know that we cared with nothing but love.
*~ postscript.
this poem is not mine; it was penned by a nurse who wishes to remain anonymous. it spoke to me of the passion with which so many, many caregivers serve, so i wanted to share it with you, and in so doing salute each of those who serve us all in the medical community.
the following was published by ABC News on 10/20/14:
"The last nurse to leave the hospital room where Thomas Eric Duncan died has written a poem about the Ebola patient, penned during the sleepless days after Duncan's death, a source told ABC News.The Associated Press. The source provided the poem to ABC News, noting that the nurse who wrote it asked to remain anonymous. Duncan, the first person in the United States to be diagnosed with Ebola, died at the Dallas hospital on Oct. 8. Two of the nurses who cared for Duncan -- Nina Pham, 26, and Amber Vinson, 29, have been diagnosed with Ebola.(Editor's note: THR refers to Texas Health Resources, the company that owns Texas Health Presbyterian Hospital.)"*
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 3:06 AM UTC
When lightning has struck me
eighty-two times
I want to hear everything
and on the eighty-third
hear nothing but
the most precious of memories.
I hope I can recount stories
of our embarrassing proposal
and the angry Presbyterian ministers
performing the ceremony
because in twenty-two and a half
years I have never once believed
my grandparents loved each other,
but last night the second Julian
recounted he and Lavern's saga
of a marriage that ended in
four fuck-ups and decades of
disappointment
with the most agreeable disposition-
even for a man dying
of too much salt in his diet.
I only hope someone will love me
enough to eat bland food
and our grandson's vegetables one day.
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 9:01 PM UTC
Forcing an alignment of corporate resources
for some theory of best fit correlation
doesn't work on Kingdom People
when using an unspoken method of tabulation.
If Life is about true spiritual growth,
then why do ministries attempt to pigeon-hole
not making any allowances for us
to develop, expand and break our current mold?
Despite multitudes of outcome possibilities
the Church seems to suffer bouts of paralysis
from the continued mashing of talents and gifts
resulting from unexplained Presbyterian analysis.
There are many ministry leaders who speak of vision -
Their tone indicates that the laity is completely blind and numb;
their message is clear - the Body is not interested
to reach the Earth before Kingdom Come.
We are souls with great, untapped potential
and not just elements of an array.
Despite our abilities and life experiences,
our dreams and desires we're not allowed to convey.
For a failure of Church motivational tricks
comes from cramming God's People into a human matrix.
Author Notes:
From the book: Reaching Towards His Unbounded Glory
The ISBN is: 1-4196-5051-3
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2006, All rights reserved.
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 7:19 AM UTC
I stared, stupidly, at his head
and the pool of red he bled
from the brass rail down onto
the barroom floor.
Had it been a half an hour
He, so cocksure of his power,
had first set foot
inside the barroom door?
I'd been alone but for the Doc
a Presbyterian Scott
who just come from
a hard delivery.
Mom and child were doing well
but the Doctor looked like hell
so I sat him down
and gave the man some tea.
I 'm the Pub man's assistant
and my job that Winter's morning
was cleaning up the place
for this day's trade.
Had I been out in the snug
I'd have never met this lug
who is lying on the floor
fit for the grave.
I am Irish from Tyrone,
He was from Lancaster-shire.
To his thinking I was
a blight on English soil.
He was spoiling for a fight
which he started with a right
that sent me sprawling
on the barroom floor.
He said "Get off the floor,
and I'll treat you to some more."
"You stupid ****
His boon companion smiled.
I'm not one to shun a fight
when I'm firmly in the right
and these arms were toned
by years of quarrying stone.
Was it surprise I saw
when He learned I'm a southpaw.
Satisfying was the sound
of fist on chin.
As he commenced his trip to earth
It was the foot rail caught him first
He cracked his skull
and then he was no more.
His friend ran for the police
as his pulse and breathing ceased
Doc looked up at me and said
"This won't go well"
" Take my bicycle and flee
Off to Scotland , listen to me,
unless you fancy
dancing on the wind."
So I rode like one possessed
on the narrow winding roads
Early winter darkness
coming down.
After, I worked on dairy farms
and spent three years in the mines.
Eventually, the case grew cold
and went away.
I emigrated to the States
where they too have
their loves and hates
but the Irish are accepted in a way.
Nov 10, 2011
Nov 10, 2011 at 7:08 AM UTC
(n) Ebenezer
1. Summer-Fall
The hands on the pews beaded in Summer sweat. The whiskey
whispers fall off the praising tongues of the Presbyterian choir
filling the sanctuary and beating at the stain glass windows
that a bird hit last week leaving a crack and when the congregation
saw it’s blooded feathers we said oh, dear and poor soul and then
climbed into our pickups and minivans and forgot and left to eat
a Sunday feast of Mexican food and rest, Sabbath naps are Biblical.
2. Winter-Spring
The robin rotted by November but the frost killed the ground too
soon for the bird to be laid to rest back beneath the protestant grass
and stones that the pastor claims are as powerful and rich of a blessing
as the stones the Jews of old inscribed with scripts wrought deep with
pleas for rescue and wails for salvation and scripted too with reminders
of trials and tribulations because trials end and Christ will reign so we drive
over the bones of robins and grass, tires kicking up our own Ebenezers.
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 1:41 PM UTC
I don't believe in God
I'm sorry
I'm not actually apologising
for the fact it's just what I've been conditioned
to say by society
Sorry?
Don't get me wrong
I was shackled as a child
to Sunday school after Chuch
and my informative
young woman years were left dead
by Girls Brigade
didn't make me less wild
Mother was Presbyterian
Father was Methodist
(You don't think I was messed up by this?)
Christened as Chuch of England
Raised as a Baptist
I think, all of the above
fall under 'Christianity'
but I'm not sure of this
So many secular emotions
under one umbrella
I'd bet, someone's gonna get wet
Then there is Islam and Hinduism
Sikhism and Judeaism
and spiritual beliefs like
Bhuddism and Druidism
How do all those different Gods compete
for our favour? To get us to lay down
as followers, to be the mat for their precious feet?
It would have to be a pretty mean feat!
I imagine them as Gladiators
fighting for the right for the masses to cheer
Winner takes all but, Losers get the non believers
What do you think the Ancient Gods
think of their petty squabbling?
The Eygyptians, the Greeks?
who simply stated humans
were to worship them religiously
and it was done, because they can
They seemed more fierce to me
sitting on Mt Olympus and coming down
occasionally, at least they had a face
What's been touted today to the human race?
I don't know enough about Religion
to make choice or want to learn
I married a Roman Catholic
that opened a whole new can of worms
An Irish Roman Catholic
Yeah, I see you nodding your heads
Suicidal, I think is the term
So I decided my children would not
be burdened by my religious ineptitude
They can choose their own beliefs
for I surely won't intrude
on their individual right to make
a decision based on their own feelings
I know I'm probably wrong, I just want
them to believe in something
Anything that makes their day better,
that helps them sleep at night
I won't choose their religion for them
I don't think that's right
Oct 11, 2013
Oct 11, 2013 at 1:33 AM UTC
The Church in its awesome majesty
Looked down, from over the hill,
From faith, to hope, to travesty
It stood, and is standing still,
So proud in its fine regalia
Its ritual, and never the least,
Its potent God who would wield his rod
Deter the jaws of the beast.
The Bishop of Saint Ignatius Church
Was a proud and holy man,
Who wouldn’t suffer the jibes of fools
From Rome to Afghanistan,
And certainly not those down the hill
In the new Masonic Lodge,
That beastly, secret doctrine that
He advised his flock to dodge.
He’d stand at the steps of his church and stare
Down at the barbarians,
He hated Lodges, he hated Mosques
And Rastafarians,
‘There shouldn’t be anyone else but me,
I hold the eternal God,
What gods they worship could never be,
For they’re all distinctly odd.’
While down at the Lodge of the Masons
They were cool with their golden rule,
They had to believe in a god as such,
But how, it was up to you.
For some would practice the Baptist faith,
And some Presbyterian,
While some enrolled in the Primitive state
Were a type of Wesleyan.
There was only a single Catholic
And he wore a glued on rug,
He wanted to still be young at heart,
Was known as the Grand HumBug,
The Antidiluvian Mason’s Guild
Was the name he’d chosen himself,
The others differed, but he was keen,
And he was the one with wealth.
Their God was known as the Architect,
They carried the masons tools,
The set square set them apart from all
The disbelievers and fools.
They worked on their secret rituals
And kept a goat at the back,
For leading a blindfold novice in
And guarding the Lodge from attack.
The Bishop heard that a Catholic
Was leading the Masons there,
He fumed, choked on his rhetoric, but
Was heard to firmly declare,
‘I will not shelter a wayward sheep
Who has taken to ways I hate,
The only fate for a traitor here
Is to excommunicate!’
He gathered a dozen priests to march
With candles, down to the Hall,
Surrounded the base heretic’s Lodge
And named HumBug in his call,
Sprinkled his holy water ‘til
It fizzed, and gave off a smell,
Doused his candle and closed his book,
Consigning the man to Hell!
But Humbug patted his glued on rug
Went out, untethered the goat,
He let it loose on the dozen Priests,
It butted the Bishop’s coat,
They ran in confusion up the street,
To the church, set up on the hill,
While the goat was hard at the Bishop’s heels
Like a demon released from Hell.
It butted the Bishop’s altar and
It charged, knocked over the font,
Scattered the pews for the devil’s dues
In a hellfire sacrament,
While HumBug muttered he might end up
In Hell, with his Mason’s sect,
But the Bishop’s God, had failed with his rod
In a clash with his Architect!
David Lewis Paget
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 12:45 AM UTC
The Gregorian calendar has evolved from insular Celtic languages, whilst the epitome of death is witnessed by desolate tree-tops of silent and haunted hills.
As we bask in the radiance of harsh winter precipitations, I acknowledge his birthplace in Ayrshire. We are asked to give credence to the important lyrics: Haste Ye Back.
The national party has pronounced Brosnachadh Bhruis, whilst partaking of the offal pudding at the address of the laird.
Our sectarian intercourses are ceremonial ejaculations in the bedlam of staunch affiliation.
I can feel the spirit of damp historical ancestry on this Presbyterian eloquence which surpasses Hogmanay by a mere 25 days.
One more thing: Don’t be a stranger.
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 12:57 AM UTC
It is early Sunday morning
at St. Luke's Hospital. In the maternity ward.,
Where I adored this beautiful face ---
What a wonderful, amazing, astonishing place.,
With such a pretty smile and face.,
Before I could cry out to your pretty face.,
An angel in a blue coat took you from our place.,
I began to cry out:
Where are you taking this pretty face?
I cried, cried and cried.,
Next. The angel in the blue coat. Took me from our place.
Can this angel be taking me back to your pretty face?
But no!
This angel took me to another pretty face.,
Everyone kept calling this pretty face, “Mommy, mommy, mommy...”
For the next twenty-three years.,
While I did my growing and learning.,
Mommy was my only pretty face.,
It is early Sunday morning at,
St. Luke's Presbyterian Church.,
Sitting there, in the church pew.,
I see a pretty face.,
I cry out, “Have I ever met you in another place?”,
The second day we met!
© 2012 - 2014 Ronald J Chapman All Rights Reserved.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 6:54 AM UTC
My secret
Will it jump out of me
Before I can catch it with cupped hands
And rock it back to sleep?
All I want to do
Is tell them
Tell everyone I love
Everyone who I so desperately want to accept me
That I like girls
And I like boys
But somehow the two seem to
Invalidate each other.
I will be ostracized in the conservative community
Of my small republican county
As well as in my very Presbyterian church and home.
And yet,
I would not be accepted fully among the queer community.
Sometimes I wonder
Why don't I just make my life easier
And ignore my feelings for girls?
I wish it was truly that easy.
It struggles and squirms in my body
As if to scream
"Get me out of here!"
If only coming out
Was actually an option.
But at this current moment
In my household
In my school
It is not.
So I guess I will continue to be
Bisexual, pansexual
Whatever the hell I am
In the comforts of my bedroom.
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 12:14 AM UTC
who the ****
does He think He is?
blasphemy, blasphemy, blasphemy.
but i don't care.
not when it's too much,
too concentrated,
all at once.
and He knows just what to do
and just who to hurt
to make me go beserk,
to make me go
"ooh, ooh, ooh"
like a ******* baby cow.
why not me?
Presbyterian guilt,
or just empathy,
or the feeling that you get
when everyone you love
has done everything they can
to hurt my parallel,
but not me, no never me.
why not?
why not me?
because He knows how to punish us,
and my greatest fear
is the pain of others.
so, so, so
complicated.
so, so, so
concentrated.
so ****** up
and selfish of me
to even ask the question,
why not me?
Mar 10, 2019
Mar 10, 2019 at 10:47 PM UTC
I am writing this using a pen that was oh-so-kindly gifted to me by a kind old lady. She also gave me a cookie, but that’s beside the point. I think she knows that the best way to bribe college students is through food. I’m standing at the table beside a girl who I THINK is in one of my classes, but I still am not quite certain. She is the kind of athletic and strong that screams “this is the confidence that you’ll never have”. We’re both being shown a piece of paper with a minimal amount of writing on it, but an infinite amount of pure heart. The paper says a sweet word about prayer and doing well on finals and all that, but my focus is on the excessive amount of exclamation marks at the end of each sentence. I guess Presbyterians really are the Oprah Winfreys of religion. I forgot to mention that the old lady is Presbyterian. She is advertising a fall bible study led by college students, which, if I were not plagued with the constant assumption that I’ll never know how to socialize or make friends, I would be absolutely enthralled by. The truth is that I’ve been trying to get “plugged in” for a while now, but how can I get plugged in when my wire is frayed and everything I touch seems to smoke and burn at some point? My plug is a circle and the outlet is a square, so I guess it’s like that saying, “A circle can’t fit into a round peg”, or something like that. Anyways, I didn’t mean for this to become an analogy between being disconnected and electrical outlets, but it turned out that way. The old lady at the booth was nice. I hope to someday be that lovely. Although I was around her for a total of thirty seconds, I saw what it’s like to live a life not shrouded in a black cloud of fear. So, thank you, lady.
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 10:59 PM UTC
1.
I started in the shadow of one of God’s many houses,
fat plums on common ground offered themselves,
taut, bruise-purple skin still pristine
for maybe two, three more weeks
Walking on, a burst fig signaled
something
fresh green torn
scandalously showing fleshy insides
that should be kept private
for lovers, gourmands, gluttons
All the while, intermittently,
the straight line train drones by,
keeping Presbyterian hold
on passing passengers
who through unopened windows
cannot smell, hear or taste the divine
All the while the crickets sang of being
2.
All the while the crickets scored my steps
until ahead, nettle and dog rose conversations
conspired to thwart this man’s,
any man’s,
attempts to walk straight and true
A detour took me from the soft lost chaos of grasses
to tight lawns, hard front doors,
dark-ish satanic mills making wheat biscuits
and the ever sad chorus of a million tyres
Nearing home, a young rabbit’s boldness held
until too close, melted away
in the managed parkland
dragonfly truths called, m’ ducks
dragonfly truths called
Aug 4, 2021
Aug 4, 2021 at 7:32 AM UTC
Normal childhood
As I receive more rejections
Of my nostalgic poetry
I must apologize
I wasn't molested, neglected
Or abused in any way
Well maybe I got spanked a time or two
And sent to my room a few
Yes I had my own room
We went on great family vacations
My brother and I were taught right from wrong
Family went to church some
Mostly Presbyterian or Lutheran or such
It was just important to listen
Copyright 2016
Richard L Ratliff
Nov 10, 2017
Nov 10, 2017 at 7:53 PM UTC
Relighting Presbyterian roots,
God’s forest-fire convolutes…
contentious times burn heterodox.
The catholic cuckoos make their round—
strange fire and popery abound;
Deus Ex Machina winds the clocks.
Let all attend the holy skirl,
an armored tartaned highland whirl
escaping from God’s music box:
a blare of sixteenth-century pipes.
unleashes types on antitypes.
Pure Calvinistic grace unlocks
the portal’s gate—and, opening wide,
the frightened worldlings peer inside
beholding heaven’s equinox.
We chasten the imploding West
for ****** Mary’s crimes confessed
(upon the Catholic queen a pox)
but praise the captain of the Kirk
for interplanetary work.
His enterprising doctrine rocks.
Apr 11, 2017
Apr 11, 2017 at 1:05 PM UTC
Nyack, NY: a naked man sits cross-legged in the middle of a road
with a dead dog sprawled across his lap, next to him there is a woman
with an empty mouth (no ice & no teeth). Nyack, NY: I am not one of them.
At night I hold scissors to my feet the way bottles were once held
to my young newborn face. Mother, Mother, in 1995, 19 years later,
did you think I’d be in a hospital?
White Plains, New York Presbyterian Hospital, Westchester Division: there
is a boy there who loves football & tells me that the two of us were born like twins.
I have never seen a football game in my life.
White Plains, New York Presbyterian Hospital, Westchester Division: there is a girl who at dinner time hides the bread rolls in her fleece, her fleece is purple like my father’s face was the day he proposed to my mother in a restaurant
in Woodstock, NY.
Upstate NY I do not cry. Upstate NY I am folded into mountains
like the comforter of a child, it is summer & my stomach expands
like boiling eggs. During the egg toss I break the egg in my hands
like a crack of thunder & my partner gets mad at me & I do not move,
like a boy I do not move. I kiss five boys in 12 months, & for each one
I feel like I am kissing my hand. For each one I feel like I am kissing
sidewalk or a magazine & I want to apologize. I let each one of them
bite my tongue until I can’t feel my stomach. I never want to feel my stomach again.
This year I am deer this year I become barbecue this year I am Christ I do not
go to church & until tonight I forget to remember my grandmother.
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 11:44 PM UTC
Trash man popery comes
to go to the dump for fulfillment, and still no return of old high church, as Reformed eat the corpse and defecation of Newman.
Too Catholic?
This Reformed Catholicism?
Your Westminster Confession is a lie?
In the trash for edification,
as the bread turns to the body
and the wine ~ blood.
'Popery gives their blessing mocking vestments, stained glass, ceremony, ritual, and liturgy. As the high Presbyterian church wonders...
Another victim.
© S. Wesley Mcgranor
12/8/21
Jan 3, 2022
Jan 3, 2022 at 11:48 PM UTC
Tariffs
White Man
Presbyterian
Catholic Wife
Popery
You have not done enough for the Black man,
and you do not care enough for the Black man...
be my homeboy.
White patriarchy
shattered
by anti-heterosexist
civil right
love affair.
Come have ****** relation
with your family,
and the World.
Come World have ****** relation with
Black
right
and we will call it Jewish?
World peace
if not for bigotry
then whom?
Trump?
Feb 20, 2021
Feb 20, 2021 at 9:09 PM UTC