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"rapscallion" poems
Once upon a time there was an Italian, And some people thought he was a rapscallion, But he wasn't offended, Because other people thought he was splendid, And he said the world was round, And everybody made an uncomplimentary sound, But he went and tried to borrow some money from Ferdinand But Ferdinand said America was a bird in the bush and he'd rather have a berdinand, But Columbus' brain was fertile, it wasn't arid, And he remembered that Ferdinand was married, And he thought, there is no wife like a misunderstood one, Because if her husband thinks something is a terrible idea she is bound to think it a good one, So he perfumed his handkerchief with bay *** and citronella, And he went to see Isabella, And he looked wonderful but he had never felt sillier, And she said, I can't place the face but the aroma is familiar, And Columbus didn't say a word, All he said was, I am Columbus, the fifteenth-century Admiral Byrd, And, just as he thought, her disposition was very malleable, And she said, Here are my jewels, and she wasn't penurious like Cornelia the mother of the Gracchi, she wasn't referring to her children, no, she was referring to her jewels, which were very very valuable, So Columbus said, Somebody show me the sunset and somebody did and he set sail for it, And he discovered America and they put him in jail for it, And the fetters gave him welts, And they named America after somebody else, So the sad fate of Columbus ought to be pointed out to every child and every voter, Because it has a very important moral, which is, Don't be a discoverer, be a promoter.
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Columbus
Once upon a time there was an Italian, And some people thought he was a rapscallion, But he wasn't offended, Because other people thought he was splendid, And he said the world was round, And everybody made an uncomplimentary sound, But he went and tried to borrow some money from Ferdinand But Ferdinand said America was a bird in the bush and he'd rather have a berdinand, But Columbus' brain was fertile, it wasn't arid, And he remembered that Ferdinand was married, And he thought, there is no wife like a misunderstood one, Because if her husband thinks something is a terrible idea she is bound to think it a good one, So he perfumed his handkerchief with bay *** and citronella, And he went to see Isabella, And he looked wonderful but he had never felt sillier, And she said, I can't place the face but the aroma is familiar, And Columbus didn't say a word, All he said was, I am Columbus, the fifteenth-century Admiral Byrd, And, just as he thought, her disposition was very malleable, And she said, Here are my jewels, and she wasn't penurious like Cornelia the mother of the Gracchi, she wasn't referring to her children, no, she was referring to her jewels, which were very very valuable, So Columbus said, Somebody show me the sunset and somebody did and he set sail for it, And he discovered America and they put him in jail for it, And the fetters gave him welts, And they named America after somebody else, So the sad fate of Columbus ought to be pointed out to every child and every voter, Because it has a very important moral, which is, Don't be a discoverer, be a promoter.
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26
Bad as a ***** ***** Bas as a ***** ***** Flapjack rippin up tracks Call the conductor Oh wait that’s me You need training Wheel’s on the track Traction that you stuck under N never wonder who is coming with the blunderbuss All up in yo face, one shot n you under us Ain’t wonderous? ****** up a couple plastics, pause, chill, kickback Smoke a couple blunts M to the A G, N to the Ificient Life’s nice isn’t it? That is, if ya got a little life light to lighten up those, like, Way heavy dark instances. And I don’t give a **** what you’re inference is Psh, this ***** tryna tell me what the difference is I thought it was obvious I am, they are not the **** Now we all got a nervous system But that don’t explain why you’re so nervous mister I done chained two chains up by his whiskers Gave away his dummy money needed hunny ****** his sister It’s the Little Rapscallion ****** up your fleet, better bring the whole battalion And I rap stallions, you stickin to the stable Fables of your ladies n your many medalions **** I’m goin off in this motha ***** Tossin these ***** fuckas wall to wall Knockin bricks out with a fist pound So get out n stand back, take notes, watch it fall I’m bach with ***** don’t matter what your speed I can clock em all, No cops involved, knock knock knock knock Lock down drop top n ball I’m all tweaked up n ***** you bound to stall
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Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 2:33 AM UTC
Swerve
Alexander K Opicho (eldoret, Kenya; [email protected]) in my state of being a deadly *** rapscallion i knew not why there are ******* on a woman i had often rushed down to the south seeking for selfish sensation in wanton of her a woman whose freedom i devoured she persevered solemnly without my know let me accede to my audience with all honesty the ******* of a woman is a treasure of nature a beacon of creation for peaceful humanity touch them fondly with a pinch of compassion be patient with them for they were your first food ****** them patiently they are amber of fire sing to them a poem in sweet love of them they will stand ***** pointing at the sun breaking eyes of your beautiful love as her heart unto you soft is gone you must treasure the ******* of a woman with your warm volley of kisses more than you scamper for her fine thighs for the power in the thighs comes from the warmth in the glorified *******
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Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 11:50 AM UTC
ode to the ******* of a woman
A tavern built on misdeeds and insurrection, House of rascals, whisky and imperfection A hideaway for rebels and racketeers, Where drinks are served to outlaws and mutineers, Where the pianist plays for pirates and privateers, Where the wicked and the wayward can be served, And are respected however undeserved. It’s a rag-tag bunch of outlaws and anarchists, A cavalcade of rough revolutionists, So come on in my dear insurrectionist, Welcome to our lawless little band, Welcome to the Tavern of the ****** Come and join our banished battalion, Join our cause, oh revered rapscallion, So calling out to nature’s abominations, We’ve got bourbon, bombshells and indignation, Come and wait for imminent and sure damnation, No matter what your deviance may be, Come and join the drunken reverie. It’s a monument to lost souls and deviants, A shrine to every small disobedience, A riotous, cathartic experience, Where radicals are safe from reprimand, Welcome to the Tavern of the ****** Welcome back, my worshipped renegade, To the place where freedom’s sweet as lemonade, Where skanks and outlaws, sing so intoxicated, The anthem of the unkempt and agitated, The mantra of the evil and of the hated, Laughing as they sing their merry tune, Unified by their impending doom. It’s a testament to chaos and anarchy, A haven for the worst of humanity, A house of lawlessness and profanity, Welcome to our lawless little band, Welcome to the Tavern of the ******
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Aug 19, 2020
Aug 19, 2020 at 6:59 PM UTC
Tavern of the ******
Father- You were so many icons: The Chief to me. My ***** Harry. The Chris to my Gordie. An Alexander Supertramp. The Rick of Casablanca. Father- You were so many nouns: Protector, Guardian, Hero, Breadwinner, Rapscallion. Father- You were so many adjectives: Funny, Caring, Interesting, Strong, Adventurous. Father- You were my biggest downfall: Five times I’ve seen you cry. For me, always baseball games. Three school events attended. Too many addictions. One ruined childhood. Father- You were so many villains: Jack, the dull boy. Gollum, with your own Precious materials. Michael Madsen, every time. Keyser Soze. The ego of Marsellus Wallace. Father- You were so many roles: Liar, Gambler, Alcoholic, Promise-Breaker, Black hole. Father- You were so many problems: Unreliable, Restless, Invisible, Hopeless, Cold. Father- I am what you made me. I am evil and broken. I am cold and emotionless. I am restless and relentless. I am insane and dark. I am conflicted and confused. Father- I am everything you aren’t. I am everything you are. I am nothing good. I am nothing inside. I am a part of you. I am because of you. Father. I wouldn’t be without you. But I would have been better off.
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Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 11:26 PM UTC
I am what you are.
Alexander K Opicho (Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected]) I love life, because in living you get all problems I love eating because you can constipate if you eat a lot, I love women because they reduce pocket giants to beggars, I love children because they instill economic tension to parents, I love trees because green snakes derive poison from them, I love poor people because their life is pure experiment, I love rich people because they snobbishly love themselves I love motor vehicles because they depreciate in a decade, I love Americans because they have drones for Gaddafi, I love Americans because they know nothing beyond their borders, I love the British because they have a monarch in their democracy, I love Europeans because they were perfect in colonialism, I love Africans because they are natural stooges, but very showy I love the Chinese because they are all short, young and commutalists, I love the Catholic Church because it has liberal piety, I love Muslims because they are not intellectually tolerant to Rushdie, I love young girls because they rarely sense danger, I love Germans because they made a beetle car; Volkswagen, I love the Japanese for honesty; they declared me Shinto of poetry, I love my wife for her spendthrift culture I love my son for his disgust of school and books, I love myself for being a poetic rapscallion, I love everything for in love you display your folly, I love music, wine and money; they expose you to the robbers I love short people for their mediocrous thought pattern I love tall women; they are dull, honesty and rarely divorce, I love English hunchbacks for they are famed for being erotically strong.
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Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 6:50 AM UTC
I LOVE
Alexander K Opicho (Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected]) I love life, because in living you get all problems I love eating because you can constipate if you eat a lot, I love women because they reduce pocket giants to beggars, I love children because they instill economic tension to parents, I love trees because green snakes derive poison from them, I love poor people because their life is pure experiment, I love rich people because they snobbishly love themselves I love motor vehicles because they depreciate in a decade, I love Americans because they have drones for Gaddafi, I love Americans because they know nothing beyond their borders, I love the British because they have a monarch in their democracy, I love Europeans because they were perfect in colonialism, I love Africans because they are natural stooges, but very showy I love the Chinese because they are all short, young and commutalists, I love the Catholic Church because it has liberal piety, I love Muslims because they are not intellectually tolerant to Rushdie, I love young girls because they rarely sense danger, I love Germans because they made a beetle car; Volkswagen, I love the Japanese for honesty; they declared me Shinto of poetry, I love my wife for her spendthrift culture I love my son for his disgust of school and books, I love myself for being a poetic rapscallion, I love everything for in love you display your folly, I love music, wine and money; they expose you to the robbers I love short people for their mediocrous thought pattern I love tall women; they are dull, honesty and rarely divorce, I love English hunchbacks for they are famed for being erotically strong.
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I am left in the forrest to die, a battered runaway slave, until a swamp mambo saves my life with some herbs and love over time, but I cannot let go of the fact she brought me back from the precipice of death, so for the rest of her breath I serve and protect her with honor and respect.   I am an ancient Chinese nobleman betrothed to a bride for more money and land, except I'd rather spend the time with a common woman because she makes me feel and opens me up, but in the end I choose the power, and to my horror the bride has the woman's family removed from life. I am a suave satyr, a boisterous and joyous half-goat who prefers the light of night, a rapscallion nymph chaser whose frenzied bacchanalia rife with wild ****** an ecstatic ******* even though a had a penchant for this shapeshifter whose eyes lifted me beyond an echo in time. As an oracle, I am only beholden to the gods though I don't think the Kings and Queens understand my sister and me. Our feminine bodies flicker and dance in shadows, embers aglow as we flow between each other's souls and worlds to bring words of wisdom through smoke visions and hieroglyphic poems.   I am a Viking, tired and hurt, our ship burns as my ****** body is momentarily buoyed in the frigid watery deep, proud yet ready to sleep until I realize this is my final battle yet won't reach Valhalla as I drown, the freezing drink slowly chokes my veins, the sound fades. I feel free, a wild dakini gypsy between dimensions and time, with my sisterly crew of hypnotizing pirates making no bones what we want from the clients as our razor sharp bodies and piercing eyes cut through souls so we may outshine each other in stories and diamonds.
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Dec 24, 2014
Dec 24, 2014 at 7:37 PM UTC
Past Timelines
I am left in the forrest to die, a battered runaway slave, until a swamp mambo saves my life with some herbs and love over time, but I cannot let go of the fact she brought me back from the precipice of death, so for the rest of her breath I serve and protect her with honor and respect.   I am an ancient Chinese nobleman betrothed to a bride for more money and land, except I'd rather spend the time with a common woman because she makes me feel and opens me up, but in the end I choose the power, and to my horror the bride has the woman's family removed from life. I am a suave satyr, a boisterous and joyous half-goat who prefers the light of night, a rapscallion nymph chaser whose frenzied bacchanalia rife with wild ****** an ecstatic ******* even though a had a penchant for this shapeshifter whose eyes lifted me beyond an echo in time. As an oracle, I am only beholden to the gods though I don't think the Kings and Queens understand my sister and me. Our feminine bodies flicker and dance in shadows, embers aglow as we flow between each other's souls and worlds to bring words of wisdom through smoke visions and hieroglyphic poems.   I am a Viking, tired and hurt, our ship burns as my ****** body is momentarily buoyed in the frigid watery deep, proud yet ready to sleep until I realize this is my final battle yet won't reach Valhalla as I drown, the freezing drink slowly chokes my veins, the sound fades. I feel free, a wild dakini gypsy between dimensions and time, with my sisterly crew of hypnotizing pirates making no bones what we want from the clients as our razor sharp bodies and piercing eyes cut through souls so we may outshine each other in stories and diamonds.
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6
It is of my opinion that you have desisted in truthiness. And as such, you will hence forth be known as a 'Teller of Untruths.' As a result, I do believe your trousers have combusted. You are a blaggard and a rapscallion. Good day...
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Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 6:28 AM UTC
Fibber Face
Upon this hill I plant the flag--      Of every imp and scallywag, rapscallion, rogue and rascal, knave--       Whom kingdoms' laws could never save. I gather every varlet, scamp,       Around the bonfire of our camp, And pass around the speaking torch,       For storytelling tales that scorch, To every sullied man, uncouth,       Unwashed who smiles a scurvied tooth, The scarlet-lettered harlot, *****       Who loves to scallygag her mensch, The whoredom-loving scallyhag,       Who trollops round the pirate's crag, The tousle-haired and greasy scullion       Cooking all a hot slumgullion, And after tales of those unnerved,       And scullion's slimy stew is served, I toast a round of filthy ale,       To all who live beyond the pale. (C)2014, Christos Rigakos
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Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 1:00 AM UTC
To all who live beyond the pale
Set upon a mornin' rush my fingers tired eyebrows crushed burrowed, borrowed time to dash time to crash, to hell with cash... I run. I run. everlasting, my copper top a blast. It's cold! You rapscallion! artificial heat beats my feet, I slow, Yes, I slow... my fingers tire my eyes in tow...
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Nov 29, 2010
Nov 29, 2010 at 1:25 AM UTC
1 2 3
Would this tale afflict thee O children of the bedevilled rock Yonder afflictions of substances unknown in cold pits With tremulous fingers and tempestous lips the body reacts to the invisible While the blooming radius of the ancient arch is magnified by the moonlight Through the weary portals of the ages lie unravished and unanswered heartbeats Across the thin glaced places where the bell tolls for ****** wonder Where the graces of undying wisdom fain to alight their ancient favor I, a ravaged rapscallion, trace all the hidden moments of my vain heart With insticts that lay in the ***** of the undying muses Strange moments hidden amidst galaxies and battered bodies Then the feasting begins when nocturnal flavors ****** unperturbed lips The general substance of furies unknown and muchness unnerved Tasked with obsolete oaths and unmade promises, the warrior breathes his last By Rowan Moses
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Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 5:38 AM UTC
Tartarus
As a sprightly rapscallion I shan't say That I have time enough to seize each day And gain ten hours of sleep again by eight To grind my daily bread and romp too late. Some days, the likes of which most fond and free, Bountiful inertia grabs hold of me By way of teeming thoughts so compelling That notions of sleep are worth dispelling. These are the days when dreams forget the time, And soak the brain without reason or rhyme. I've possessed genius far beyond my years, A plan uniting fire within my peers: The hope to alter all that's in our way And get better rest the following day.
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Jun 22, 2010
Jun 22, 2010 at 12:27 AM UTC
4 am
On your way out Do not pout Nay slow not tarry ye heathen I've known long of your thievin. Betrayed I was By a boy of round eyes and peach fuzz. Taken my prizes were By a child with a leopard's purr. Twas in night much as this That his presence I did miss. For gone was he Out the window did he flee The scoundrel, rapscallion, fool, For Twas beneath the window, a frozen pool. Through the ice did he go And a scream did he throw. Fore drowning did he That one what stole from me.
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Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 8:08 AM UTC
Thief
I am Slowly dying but the satellite dish doesn't blink - Just one pupil dilated imploring why, ever upwards. And my own hair, stained with grease Berries stranded on naked branches age like a fine wine tinted rouge, poisons helds tightly behind fleshy walls I am the puddle that does not know any better than to throw reflections of rosy sunset bathed brick buildings up to me, the viewer Powdered dusk gathers in crevices under my eyes, monumental and fixed. In the space between my sanity and my psychosis, you found me and now I am a winter scene: Your snows silence all that vibrates with life and the light from your street lamps glimmers deceitfully on reconstructed ice crystals coating the meaningless powder underneath The poplar, by now long dormant, remains indifferent to the pseudo-charm of the perceived purity of it all and I am the satellite dish with one pupil fixated on the sky above, imploring when? And we cycle again, and my oil stained hair is no match for the clouds of ash above, the ash I so carefully tip from the lips I am parching with reasons unfathomable. In the darkness I wonder who sleeps, who labors, and who is stricken awake with questions unanswerable. Oh, vagabond! Come to me and show me the way out! Erase these pale purple vales fluorishing under eyes fatigued and point me in the direction of trees singing overhead so I may be part of everywhere. Oh, rapscallion! Wipe your dirtied feet and embrace my soul, so weary with travel. Smooth the wrinkles from my eyes so I may see clearly once more! I cannot tell you what I am, Besides a bag of knotted entrails wound tightly in the space between - My sanity and my psychosis - In the space between my bones - I know not what I am, but I may be memories - I am a wrinkled space with mattified nighttime sky in my crevices - Do not call me for anything but what I am, for I am no beast of higher powers. I am, perhaps, that bat tearing through inky space with webbed fingers - clawing through the space between - My sanity and my psychosis - I know I am the hay fields, cracked and bent I know I am not a thing to touch, to forget But I know all things must end, my delicate one and I hope you will remember all that I am and all that I am not Every time you feel that familiar ache in the wind.
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Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 8:18 PM UTC
The Space Between
I am Slowly dying but the satellite dish doesn't blink - Just one pupil dilated imploring why, ever upwards. And my own hair, stained with grease Berries stranded on naked branches age like a fine wine tinted rouge, poisons helds tightly behind fleshy walls I am the puddle that does not know any better than to throw reflections of rosy sunset bathed brick buildings up to me, the viewer Powdered dusk gathers in crevices under my eyes, monumental and fixed. In the space between my sanity and my psychosis, you found me and now I am a winter scene: Your snows silence all that vibrates with life and the light from your street lamps glimmers deceitfully on reconstructed ice crystals coating the meaningless powder underneath The poplar, by now long dormant, remains indifferent to the pseudo-charm of the perceived purity of it all and I am the satellite dish with one pupil fixated on the sky above, imploring when? And we cycle again, and my oil stained hair is no match for the clouds of ash above, the ash I so carefully tip from the lips I am parching with reasons unfathomable. In the darkness I wonder who sleeps, who labors, and who is stricken awake with questions unanswerable. Oh, vagabond! Come to me and show me the way out! Erase these pale purple vales fluorishing under eyes fatigued and point me in the direction of trees singing overhead so I may be part of everywhere. Oh, rapscallion! Wipe your dirtied feet and embrace my soul, so weary with travel. Smooth the wrinkles from my eyes so I may see clearly once more! I cannot tell you what I am, Besides a bag of knotted entrails wound tightly in the space between - My sanity and my psychosis - In the space between my bones - I know not what I am, but I may be memories - I am a wrinkled space with mattified nighttime sky in my crevices - Do not call me for anything but what I am, for I am no beast of higher powers. I am, perhaps, that bat tearing through inky space with webbed fingers - clawing through the space between - My sanity and my psychosis - I know I am the hay fields, cracked and bent I know I am not a thing to touch, to forget But I know all things must end, my delicate one and I hope you will remember all that I am and all that I am not Every time you feel that familiar ache in the wind.
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You are the most talented cutpurse I know For before I even knew it My thoughts and heart belonged to you But what makes you the best thief of all Is that they were given so willingly I barely recall a time when they were mine To complete your rapscallion’s repertoire Whatever locks once grasped upon my heart You picked with ease and without a second thought It’s contents laid bare to you But a Robin Hood you are You returned what you found to me So we may share
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Apr 16, 2018
Apr 16, 2018 at 1:36 AM UTC
Thief of the Heart
back muscle spasm falling into the chasm like a rapscallion in a holding cell images phantasm plasma distorts springtime fashion I passionately question a season of natural ****** babies play in open meadows birthed with the new sun bringing fruition to the one calling …procreate – artificially inseminated Holstein heifers drop the next generation still in sack to the hard unforgiving ground expectant of an instant jump and suckle hard teats secrete a wonderful feat …..but it is stolen and fed to innocent humans to fatten them and placate them for a different slaughter lies upon red and clouded horizon –
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May 13, 2016
May 13, 2016 at 3:11 PM UTC
some life mystery
I hate the saying, "Baby's Mama." It's so ****** As I drifted off to sleep last night, crocked on a plethora of pills, and the remnants of ***** I thought to myself, She's a little bluebird that burrowed in my heart. I laughed and slobbered, and drifted into the warm fuzzy black. She's intuitive, she asked me to let the nurse know that her and the kids were coming so that there would be a smooth transition with staff. Hospitals can be peculiar when it comes to visitation with children. So she asked me how I wanted to refer to her. She's the Mother of my 2-year old daughter, and she has a 10-year old boy that I have been around for 6 years. He's like my own son, but 'technically, he's not. I don't want to offend anyone. It's all so ******* complicated. I could say, "This is Bonnie, I'm Clyde, and this is our gang." They probably wouldn't laugh. I feel very comfortable saying, "These are our kids, and this is their Mom" If the kids weren't in ear-shot and I felt like a rapscallion, I might say,"This is a woman that I used to love and **** a lot! Finally we had our daughter- WOW- AMAZING! ! ! The boy came along before I met her, but I love him like my own son- always and forever." Anyway, this is my daughter, and my son, and a woman that I used to love and **** a lot, also, a fantastic Mother, and when I'm twacked out d-toxing- drifting off to sleep, and laughing about what to call her, I might just call her my little bluebird, that burrows in my heart.
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May 19, 2020
May 19, 2020 at 6:46 PM UTC
She's my Little Bluebird that Burrows in my Heart
The shooter seems willing to speak… - I was lied to. I was good for nothin' sure, as a young rapscallion's apprentice, why who would not be mad, upon learning of the ways bank's means support the boys being used as mercenaries, - and yeah, what a wonderful thing compounded confounding interests seem, gee, America was great, for some people, all the time, sorted ones, picked for preparation, smart kid, we can use such, prepared, liberally educated and earnestly able, to make a plan, write a thesis, daily table, to change a plan into a scheme, ability imbued with a curious charisma, they say, so full of his personality, like Donald, Goofy and Minnie both nod, **** did you vote for Al Smith, back then, when America was great, and fortunes was made selling Bridges in Brooklyn, ? time and again, its like we was there, East end, West end, all around the town, but, at the movies, in little dark structures serving ancient needs, hands could be held, and, dare we, yes, yes, all the way, America wins the America's Cup, a true, real deal feel we are in that Spirit, riding wind under the Oracle banner, winning America's cup, for spreadsheet people. - everyday folks who watch old movies on TV. - And the folks who make those movies for you. Those are the teams, eh, the people versus the people. Spy vs. Spy, yes … Mad, Al Smith, and Alfred E. Neuman, Barak, atar adonai ai ai ai, did I not warn you, allusions to Jeopardy questions evoke immediate inssi-der we won. Not ironically, sublimely subtleeeeeeeeeee Something t's me off, I swing. Killer instinct. Gut reacts. Spirituality is gaseous, mystical, like swamp gas, but in your belly, burning, below the bosum.
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Apr 10, 2024
Apr 10, 2024 at 3:45 PM UTC
I was mad, at the time, sure
The shooter seems willing to speak… - I was lied to. I was good for nothin' sure, as a young rapscallion's apprentice, why who would not be mad, upon learning of the ways bank's means support the boys being used as mercenaries, - and yeah, what a wonderful thing compounded confounding interests seem, gee, America was great, for some people, all the time, sorted ones, picked for preparation, smart kid, we can use such, prepared, liberally educated and earnestly able, to make a plan, write a thesis, daily table, to change a plan into a scheme, ability imbued with a curious charisma, they say, so full of his personality, like Donald, Goofy and Minnie both nod, **** did you vote for Al Smith, back then, when America was great, and fortunes was made selling Bridges in Brooklyn, ? time and again, its like we was there, East end, West end, all around the town, but, at the movies, in little dark structures serving ancient needs, hands could be held, and, dare we, yes, yes, all the way, America wins the America's Cup, a true, real deal feel we are in that Spirit, riding wind under the Oracle banner, winning America's cup, for spreadsheet people. - everyday folks who watch old movies on TV. - And the folks who make those movies for you. Those are the teams, eh, the people versus the people. Spy vs. Spy, yes … Mad, Al Smith, and Alfred E. Neuman, Barak, atar adonai ai ai ai, did I not warn you, allusions to Jeopardy questions evoke immediate inssi-der we won. Not ironically, sublimely subtleeeeeeeeeee Something t's me off, I swing. Killer instinct. Gut reacts. Spirituality is gaseous, mystical, like swamp gas, but in your belly, burning, below the bosum.
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