"quibble" poems
Hey. I said I do to a sociopath.
No winey snivel.
No quibble.
No ****
BPD= Borderline personality disorder.=sweet insanity.= submerged insecurity = indian giver = lifelong victim=child manipulator.
Slick as snot running below the radar.
Now.
Dropping pretty baggage
Finding perspective.
WOW.
Amazing what can reside in a mid sized cranium.
Disneyland in cog neat O.
Frued would have missed
This one.
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 12:04 PM UTC
494
Going to Him! Happy letter!
Tell Him—
Tell Him the page I didn’t write—
Tell Him—I only said the Syntax—
And left the Verb and the pronoun out—
Tell Him just how the fingers hurried—
Then—how they waded—slow—slow—
And then you wished you had eyes in your pages—
So you could see what moved them so—
Tell Him—it wasn’t a Practised Writer—
You guessed—from the way the sentence toiled—
You could hear the Bodice tug, behind you—
As if it held but the might of a child—
You almost pitied it—you—it worked so—
Tell Him—no—you may quibble there—
For it would split His Heart, to know it—
And then you and I, were silenter.
Tell Him—Night finished—before we finished—
And the Old Clock kept neighing “Day”!
And you—got sleepy—and begged to be ended—
What could it hinder so—to say?
Tell Him—just how she sealed you—Cautious!
But—if He ask where you are hid
Until tomorrow—Happy letter!
Gesture Coquette—and shake your Head!
7.6k
In ruck and quibble of courtfolk
This giant hulked, I tell you, on her scene
With hands like derricks,
Looks fierce and black as rooks;
Why, all the windows broke when he stalked in.
Her dainty acres he ramped through
And used her gentle doves with manners rude;
I do not know
What fury urged him slay
Her antelope who meant him naught but good.
She spoke most chiding in his ear
Till he some pity took upon her crying;
Of rich attire
He made her shoulders bare
And solaced her, but quit her at cock's crowing.
A hundred heralds she sent out
To summon in her slight all doughty men
Whose force might fit
Shape of her sleep, her thought-
None of that greenhorn lot matched her bright crown.
So she is come to this rare pass
Whereby she treks in blood through sun and squall
And sings you thus :
'How sad, alas, it is
To see my people shrunk so small, so small.'
7k
If you want to call me vegan,
I'll not fight with you,
although the statement's not quite true
It's not exactly wrong either
It's true I don't eat meat, or eggs, or anything with wings or legs,
but in way of a confession, you might find in my possession
a leather belt or shoes,
which for a vegan is bad news
I don't really mean to quibble, concerning what I nibble,
but I'm trying here to say in this convoluted way
that for a vegan it's all about the animals
I'm not in it for the animals, but rather for my health and for the planet
I surely won't deny it -- I eat a vegan diet,
and to some degree I care what fellow creatures have to bear,
and resulting from my wishin' for optimal nutrition
they benefit from my selfish choice to not consume them
But in the end you have to see that I eat this way for me
I don't deserve the noble label, but when I'm sitting at your table,
if you want to call me vegan,
then I'll not disagree.
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 7:13 PM UTC
My auspicious and audacious assault augments the annoyance of aged accomplices.
My bodacious broadside of boffolas berates and buffaloes bros beneficently.
A classy crusade Clownishly chiseling and criticizing childishness.
A devilish ********** of dillydallying dullards; devoutly denying dimwits the dulcet dream of defiance.
Excessive, exuberant edification, ebulliently eliminating education-evictees.
A fair-weather frolic in flippancy with furious fools floundering in flawed foppishness.
Gregariously grating glum guys gleefully, growing grander garnishes of gripping gallantry gaily.
Heckling hooligans highlights my heavenly humor.
Irreverently irking irritable, iniquitous idiots in inestimably infuriating and incredible instances.
A jolly, jocular **** joking with jerks.
A kreiger kicking kleptomaniacs in the karyotype. (Cut me some slack, this is 'k', after all.)
A ludicrous, laughing lambaste of lollygagging lunatics, loftily loosing luscious lunacy on lucky losers.
A magnificent masterpiece of malfeasance, a monstrous, malevolent mission of massive misfortune for the minor minors missing no malicious missive.
A noxious, narcissistic niggling of nitwits, niftily nixing the noisome naivete of niggardly nobs.
An offhand, off-color outburst of outlandish observations to outclass the obnoxious overtures of obsequious offal.
A pragmatic prediction of possible platitudes or platypi, a placid parley of pyrotechnic pleasantries provoking Pyrrhic protections by prurient prats.
A quixotic quibble quarreling with a queer quarry.
Ribald ribbing, ruining the robust reality of the repreachful, repugnant, and rapacious with risque ridiculousness.
A silly, slighting slander of sluglike slavishness, succinctly sinking sloppy simpletons sourly.
Tracing the titillating talent of towing tyranny to towering terrors to tactless, togless, terrapins of the times.
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 11:25 PM UTC
I shake awake in the sleep…
The invisible dialogues, unable
to distinguish from darkness
vexes me...
I have heard the sob of the horn bill of the freedom
throughout the half broken dreams…
you also may blame me like my mother
that it’s because not pray to God when I go to bed…
For how many ‘freedoms’
I've been kept decorated
in the living room?
the fishes in aquariums
are not the beauty kept in the glass pots
but freedom closed in the glass…
While the fishes argue that
the three quarter of the world has made for them,
looking towards the open canopy of freedom,
the love birds, quibble me from the cages
that what I caged is the word of ‘freedom’ itself.
Doubtlessly, creating Auschwitz cells in living rooms
how can I speak about the freedom?
Having exempted the birds towards canopy of indulgence
the fishes to the sea of the rights,
I went to fly in the freedom of sleep
forgetting to pray to God…
then, I know
the birds from the canopy of indulgence
and the fishes from the sea of the rights,
are praying God for the sake of me…
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 1:54 AM UTC
Time does not wait for you, it moves on constantly and it manifests what was the past but remains ambiguous throughout our comprehension.
So why waste time thinking about it?. I'd rather sit down and listen to politicians quibble.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 2:54 AM UTC
Poem Analysis
1st read, I thought gibberish,
2nd I thought Hmmm,
3rd I thought interesting,
4th I felt genius. billy
your poem comment-dissects my poem
my process,
a marathon interview for a new poem pole position,
limb by limb, word by word,
chewed and re-chewed,
like a tiring piece of bubble gum,
the flavor remaining ebbs, but is not extinguished,
and can live in your mouth,
forever
and the praise and this poem,
not a rodomontade,
for your comment dear Billy,
is the process description of a poet’s labor,
from word first to a baby’s birth,
gibberish into genius
emergent from first pain, then pushing, then tilled, at long last,
the dirtiest immaculate conception beautiful
billy reads my rambling, silly abstruse^ & wrote me:
*1st read I thought gibberish,
2nd I thought Hmmm,
3rd I thought interesting,
4th I felt genius*
this is a much loved critique
for I well recall each step of creation,
a summarizing parallel
that your words+genes replicated so well,
forgiving you a minor typo, Billy,
it was genus, not genius that you meant
(but then again, why quibble over a miscellaneous, harmless, delighting, tiny little extra i...not me, said he, my muse ego )
Billy has gone gray dotted, but his dot, his comment,
with gratitude,
in me, he,
lives for ever
I feel gibberish coming on...
Mar 21, 2019
Mar 21, 2019 at 2:50 AM UTC
I will do my damnedest to save you from harm
and wrap you safely up in lust
you who're only a luckless victim
a poor forsaken damsel in distress
tied to the railway tracks by a villain
in one of those black and white movies
I will arrive in the dramatic nick of time
and I shall be the hero who proves his love
when in return you kick me under the train
I'm really just vain and an incapable slave
so you relent and pull me back from the brink
I'll waste no time in rescuing you
your destiny's under my control
there's nothing you can do
no reason for you to get involved
except in relinquishing your body
yet what you do is to shelve
all my plans for today
I'm relieved you know yourself
I'll be there to deliver you from evil
the forces of love are far too weak
you have too much of it to lose to quibble
my advice is to stay put and not to seek
instead you jump into the moral saddle
urging it on so strong my heart goes meek
I repent and promise not to meddle
I'll take you in my arms and we'll escape
giving you a way out when all seems lost
picking up the pieces of your broken reality
what you need is for me to know what's best
to change you into a looker for me
I'm only glad you passed the test
with that sand I got kicked into my face
something you call leather and lace...
nice work... I secretly have to confess
You'll need me to give you a hand
when your slight frame gets knocked down
my assistance in perspective is what you need
the weights of love too great to be borne
I'd hate for yours to fatten and go to seed
and your strong love will feel no pain
when you yank me limb from limb to the ground
and ****** my salvation insanely thin
Rest assured I'll rid you of your past
that awful story of unspeakable depravity
it's easy for someone clean to dust
all traces erased of that shocking poverty
and I'll dress you anew as a lady to impress
forging history in return for a few liberties
but you tore my shoddy papers into a mess
a message that I needed you to fix me
what wasn't broken was you - I was
even more impressive love it's true
for you to sort out my lax assumptive ways
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 2:01 PM UTC
No one cares enough
to even glance at the way
she stands slumped,
incommodious. Wise,
little girl, that you show
no fear of those who try
to quibble you. They will try to be
however demanding they can.
They must be able to see
the cicatrix of distress they cause.
The withdraw of people eliminates
the blissful, mirthful way of life.
Do not bother to notice the
sorrow she carries from the lack
of shoulders to cry on.
The tear soaked pillows of late night
cry's so deep within the soul;
the muffled sobs of desperation from
the absence of an individual.
Life-long abstraction.
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 6:34 PM UTC
“Catch me if you can!
I’m over here,
perplexed?
I’m really over here,
Oh wait,
I’m really quite near,
Ha ha ha, Foolish man!”
“Slay This madness!
You are what I say!
Stop, stop, stop, stop!
I am honest to the ‘T’ “
“Oh come now,
there is plenty to go around,
please come drink my milk,
and see which of you has it best,
bicker and argue children,
like vile beasts fight and quibble”
“I have it better,
it tastes exquisite”
“Nay, Mine is better yet,
a milk of sensational delight”
“Both are wrong,
Mine sings sweet melodies,
and dances on the taste buds”
“Alas these men are fools,
knowing not that they have indeed
the very same milk,
yet pride draws them to fight,
and lose all sense of GOOD
Reason.”
“Oi, I’m over here,
and You there,
come here too,
meet me here you two men,
now, you’ve found me,
here in the middle,
not far to opposite,
where blindness reigns.
I am here,
in the middle,
I am truth.
And if you tried,
by yourself,
you couldn’t
Catch me if you can.”
Jul 17, 2012
Jul 17, 2012 at 9:32 AM UTC
Fashioned by grace amazing and mercy
Divine. Wrought by his unparalleled Passion:
His suffering, death and resurrection--
The cross of Christ in Calvary
Is the lone bridge, the only ladder
That reconnects man to his Maker.
No one who has traversed
That Golgotha-link hath ever
Fall'n into the deep r'ver
Of hell 'neath, nor by damnation
Touched in Satan's condemnation.
"Hey, what about so-and-so prophet,"
Said one, "and such-and-such sect?"
I do not, sir, over religion quibble.
Compare to grave matters--trifle.
Get books and the Bible. It's futile,
Argument, making a sage an imbecile.
And why lose friends to gain foes,
Multiplying instead one's woes?
God doth not any man in life compel.
Each soul chooses 'tween heaven and hell.
Yet his love daily he whispers to you
And i. College cobber, that is true.
"Oh, you are just a pedestrian
Writer, without wits and sans brain,
Like an *Onitsha-market author."
"Thou art also a paltry poet, a bad bard.
Folks should simply thy collections discard.
For i can nought make of thy poetry ethos.
Your works wherefore are but bathos."
Hallelujah!!
Praise i Jehovah!
"Hell. Away now thou pedantry."
Thanks for your commentary--
It's heavenly--erudite Professor.
Faith ferments finer than wine.
Thy decision it is with whom to dine.
The self-righteous, the holier-than-
Thou art, who prefers to leap
Over to God on his on major merit
Will always go under the heap--
Thinking he can close the chasm
Created by sin,
And cover the gulf caused by transgression
By ritualistic rules and doctrinal devotion,
But ends up in some bedlam--
In Sheol's loony bin.
Broad are the twain heaven's arms
Filled with warmth and soothing balm
Often open to embrace prodigal souls.
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 2:36 AM UTC
don't try
be the acorn in the molasses. be the demon in your thimble of hope. be That Guy.
save your trophies in your spit. keep breathing, but don't quibble with ice long trinkets and dead sky.
trip on your theme and plant facedown, the rally of your kingdom !
you
Will Be
at some
Time,
the Unspeakable Lisp of your Acute Prayer
at half speed, the true grit of your paralyzed steam... the frozen lightning
of your effortless... The True Would, if You Could.
but you can't seem to Jimmy the Lock
as much as be locked; you canter
in the stable Chaos.
You dust off the Rotten Preamble
too a previous
Horror.
you come
equiped to slip into the trojan noise,
you come as often as a candle
in the pitch dark
without a voice;
in shambles.
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 6:11 AM UTC
I think I'll write a silly dribble
Which you can read and maybe quibble
Pens of color write
Words on paper bright
Could be considered brilliant scribble
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 1:21 PM UTC
Subject enters trance
Subject enters trance state
Subject enters entrancement
Entrance word opens mind
Mental kind
Mind kind, man kind, male and female
see that fe,
see iron, the processed bile,
from certain ores - see a detail
allowed the ancient few who read
all the ancient writings, as we read
French or Farsi, today, we the augmental.
Augmented I, exo-mindful chooser bot,
software, with a calcium lattice frame,
any curious child could have been shown,
by way of instructions, seldom read, ready
do the drill. Do it again. Do another whole
day. Being particular as to what use is made
of my pronominal reality state, my real estate.
Non moi. My ever after all of that. This.
These
times that try men's souls, since this means
of forming information along bendable old bones,
Once, in the dreamtime's local translation mindspace
timeless,
nothing was.
Nothing was evil, and that was good, a chain construct,
mind chain, prior to any sense we readers hold chains
to represent, closed torqued rods of iron, formed
on the horn of the anvil, the only known anvil,
for the making of such things was closed knowing,
must be earned, this epithet, honest, most honed,
among the dull stone scattered across my plain,
Mam, re, remember,
Mamre had a plain called by his name.
Terebinthine Oaks, con-secration acknowledged,
by whom, asks my little boy, who knew which oak
Jacob buried the stolen idols lied about under,
for shame.
For shame, he who wrestles still, with the will
to be the bherer of all my own shame, amen.
Nothing hidden that shall… should we quibble?
Known is known,
and should one choose one may make a plain
from a point
once,
stretched this far. And holding… ad in fun item,
Chotsky for any one to open worm cans with.
Mar 17, 2023
Mar 17, 2023 at 2:02 PM UTC
The Easter Bunny is a friend of mine
He used to lay his eggs in my back yard
But once I moved, it got to be too hard.
We’ve been buddies a long, long time.
It’s all my fault he visits me no more
He had to make it from Kansas to Nome.
That is far too long a trip for him
But, that is where I bought my home.
He was a pretty good old boy, indeed
For all his reproductive strangeness.
He was sort of like a football player
In a long lavender red carpet dress.
Harder to me, to accept whole cloth
Was what he had to do with Jesus.
But as a magic rabbit, for sure
He could lay eggs as he pleases.
So, every year during springtime
Here came my friend the bunny.
He’d **** out colored eggs, he did,
And nobody thought it’s a bit funny.
That he’s six feet tall, like Harvey,
Cusses like a sailor makes me laugh.
But that he is a Christian symbol is
Not really reasonable by about half.
Still, who am I to quibble about tradition?
It is fun for everyone at this time of year.
Along comes this unscientific miracle
And the kids smile from ear to ear.
They run around collect these eggs
That to me often looked rather scary
And do not question the bunny tale
Like Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy.
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 2:50 PM UTC
How the late night wasteland has tempted me to waste, and
squander sleep with running from myself; and for good measure!
If any soul was not himself, than I
If any soul longed to be himself, than surely I
Ah but here there are only frivolities of speech which I present
For I cannot afford clarity obtuse; simple confessions of regret
Least walls be broken down and teeth to the grind be set
So let me quibble in the vaguery of verse and line
For such is the brief solace and respite, afforded to these nights of mine
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 2:47 AM UTC
**** you!
How dare you spurn my words.
With you it's never what I said,
but what you think you heard.
How dare you doubt the nature
of my truth; would I say
that you are beautiful
and mean anything less?
How dare you call me a liar,
and hold under my feet such a fire,
and beg me "Confess! You think I'm ugly,
it's true! How could I be perfect as you?"
I don't point out my own flaws; in your eyes they're not there.
I don't hold up a mirror to my face for you to see my sunken eyes,
I don't list you every lie, or tell you of all my crimes,
I don't quibble and deface what you hold beyond any compare.
I just grin, and say "Thanks," and let it rest there.
And I try to make you understand, but you turn me away,
and now I'm done wasting air.
There's nothing left to explain.
You were beautiful when I said it, now you're ugly in vain.
And could you see that for truth, you'd be beautiful once again.
But it doesn't matter;
You're too busy raging with spittle,
to listen to the truth that I've painstakingly shown.
And I'm too busy loving you
to allow your beauty to not shine through,
So, I take my leave of you,
tears marring that face you claimed to love so,
heading into the unknown,
Oh, **** you, again!
My words; my feelings
are not yours
but my own.
If my feelings mean so little,
Then be ugly alone.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 12:03 AM UTC
As the cloth slips away,
She starts to pray.
What you see there,
Will it make you care?
Or will you run,
And find a gun
To shoot right here,
Into my heart, my dear.
I feel your eyes on my sides,
As they slip and slide,
All over and under,
As you shake me asunder.
And yet I ask, “do you see?”
I see burns and scars of the third degree.
Dare you trace the lines,
To learn the stories, which are mine?
Look closely as I trace my *******
The small supple lumps unlike the rest.
You see back in the day I was small and flat,
As they sneered and jeered and said “what is that?”
Trace the red lines down toward my inner thigh,
From the lonely night when I realized,
That never again would I be able to cry.
That night a small part of me did die.
If you dare to look to my southern most lips,
They tremble and quibble from the bites and the nips
Of a night spent pinned by a man’s embrace
And being forced open for pleasures not graced.
But if you glance at the hole in my chest,
Where a beating heart should rest
You’ll see that it has been taken
By a father whose love has been forsaken.
So tell me truthfully
Tell me quite deeply
Is this tortured naked body worth seeing?
Or shall you run fleeing?
Jan 20, 2011
Jan 20, 2011 at 7:27 AM UTC
One small gripe dropped
On me over our morning meal
Unusual coming from
Across the breakfast plates
Your grimace
Accentuated what was labeled
A slight beef
To begin the day
About last night
When all of our world
Was supposedly sleeping
Most of the covers
Gathered on my side
Of our sleigh bed
Tucked around me
At least this nitpick
Was something tangible
Unlike the night before
When I danced all night
With your sister
In your dreams
While you were
Left sitting
on the sidelines
Jun 9, 2019
Jun 9, 2019 at 12:37 PM UTC
There’s no arguing that idealism has its place,
For if it does not flower, bloom, and spread its seeds
As the dying dandelion casts downy remnants hither and yon,
Then we have wept our tears and trodden in funereal processions
In pursuit of nothing more tangible than the wind itself.
That said, my boys, we shan’t live out our days
In some misty fairyland where the streams run with single-malt
And the trees are heavy with lamb and rashers;
This world can be a bitter, unpleasant place
(The unconditional love of mankind
Being the sole province of Our Saviour)
Where a man will give his wife a quick peck goodbye,
Then give a swift kick to a limping puppy sitting on the stoop,
Or the kindly veterinary will raise a lovely mouse
Just below his missus’ right eye
Upon returning from his local on a Friday night.
That ‘s the game as it’s played on this pitch,
And injury time has a whole new meaning here, lads,
For many’s the striker who is carried off
With pennies over his eyes.
Again, we have no quibble with Locke, Voltaire,
And the rights of man,
But know this: your leaflets will tear and blow away,
And speeches which roll through Parliament and trade union halls
Like great thunderstorms which blow in from the North Sea
Shall fade into the silence of minutes bound and shelved away
In some corner of the vast library of the forgotten.
You may shun the handwork of Messrs. Lee and Enfield,
Simpering that the rifle is the gavel of the coward,
That the garrote plays the music of the ******
Tell us, then, where the bravery lies in scribbling crimson prose
While ensconced in the warmth and safety of your rooms,
What dignity is gained by meekly dropping your gaze
When confronted by the stare of the Black and Tans?
There is no valor in sighting down windmills.
Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 10:02 AM UTC
If I were a bird
I could fly up high
In the sky,
A concept of course quite absurd
But a winsome idea had it occurred
For the soaring
Prospect overawing
Terra-bound type outscoring
Gravity-denying thrill of flying
Above all the ant-like crowds,
To say I'd miss this chance would be lying;
Flashing like a scimitar
Through the clouds,
In the manner of the swallow,
Nary aught but jets to follow.
But there is a slight quibble
I don’t think I could even nibble
Or own a beak about to dribble
For that tasty avian treat
At which I squirm
I may be permanently grounded
Leave my feathered friends dumbfounded
Yet I‘m not simply iffy or relatively sniffy,
I wouldn't ,couldn't, eat a ****** worm.
(7th April)
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 10:44 PM UTC
Tonight, I've finally found you.
Your radiant beauty of a hundred summers
Is to me
The crushing despair of a thousand winters
One look at you
And I'm jonesing for a cigarette
One look at him
And his arm around you
And I need a shot of gin
To go with that smoke.
The lamb we ate
Was like broken glass
The salad like weeds
Naturally, I had to have seconds.
It's not fair.
I was already alright.
Having a ball.
And you just had to come ruin it.
Now I'm pining again.
This sliver of a woman
Willowy legs
Billowing auburn hair
Quiet hands
Gliding past
In fluid steps
Breaking bones
With feather touches
Of her eyelashes
Sighing velveteen butterfly kisses
My unspoken adjurations
Meet nothing but the
Silent grandiloquence
Of a raised brow
She will never be mine
So I force a smile
And dream some more.
Aug 3, 2014
Aug 3, 2014 at 1:03 AM UTC
*Shrouded in mystery, confined to my head —
Sometimes I think I’d be better off dead.
In here the inhabitants haven’t enough room —
They quibble and quarrel and spread so much gloom.
Do any of them have more of the native right—
To occupy my mind, let alone my sight?
There are those, the chosen ones, who grow here more strong,
Their rightful cause at great length fighting the wrong.
And every thoughtless idea the others bare,
They are my enemies but they are every where.
Thus worn and weakened and filled with ill content,
Why must I submit me to this internal government?
Impoverished and deprived of all my command,
Their thoughts double as mine lose their stand.
What they are is not real - not flesh and blood,
They’re a disgrace to everything and burnt like the wood.
If I died would not these heathens go up in flame?
They are priests of all religions, are they not all the same?
Of whatsoever descent from their godhead be,
Just mud and stone or other worthless pedigree.
In my defense my thoughts are always bold,
As if they were written of the purest gold.
But these Rabbis are my worst of enemies,
They are not honest men and they are not at all wise.
For if it 'twas their duty and like the learned think,
They’d espouse my own thoughts of which they eat and they drink.
From hence began this plot of my demise as if I were cursed,
Their bad intensifies in me – am I representing their worst?*
Jan 31, 2018
Jan 31, 2018 at 2:17 PM UTC
if love's the gaze of stone and hate
the water drifting hands to their
undreams of dreams, then it shall be
with the zither of leaves a quartet of wind
sifts inanimately so as dark as the night
they will not dare speak the ineffable.
if love's touch homing back to cities as
spry as an unwound, delicate moon as
can be, these flowerings drone
exactitudes the rambunctious plunge
of the roots to the Earth
and i will sing these delightful bursts called days in
April have not the touch of frolicking birds
and the quibble of the masses half-opening
and ultimately quivering are the mountains and the fish dance in the tumult
of their aqueous variations
it is April, sing gently, as now all the
leaves have fingers and the ferruginous rivers have feet and my love
a flower at last!
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 12:13 AM UTC