"saps" poems
For an hour and a half I sit on the floor
holding a piece of shaped cardboard.
I turn it round and round to show all side
while holding a paper plate of paints.
He holds the brush like he holds his pencils
“wrong.”
He pays attention to the cartoon at his lap
and sporadically looks at the tip of the brush.
Colors are scattered with no rhyme and reasons
and brush strokes are seen without hesitation.
He paints and paints and saps his little energy
to make a Christmas present for his little sister.
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 11:43 PM UTC
I.
I'm writing to tell you that I've spoken with your sister.
She tells me everything these days, though recently I've marked the way her voice conceals a quiet shame; rage in casual tones, and fear in quiet whispers.
I haven't kissed her in quite some time.
She's thinking of you.
II.
I'm sorry that I haven't written sooner. This fasting saps volition from my fingers, and the hot smell of ozone still lingers in the air.
But everywhere I see you on the news.
Has Ramadan been hard for you this year? I'm looking forward to hearing from you. I want to know that you are near once more. Please write.
III.
I saw an action flick today, and something of you in the way the heroine roared and flipped her hair just before letting a rocket fly.
I thought that I would die of suspense until the moment when the hero rose from the rubble to stand above his foes.
Crows circled. Credits rolled.
IV.
Thunder tolls. The atmosphere crackles and bursts. It's early yet, and not even my worst. My warring hands will never give you peace. An endless war-song issues from my lips.
You are not brave enough, dear girl, to resist destruction by my hand. The bomb blessed by my lips is indifferent, darling boy.
I will consume the gardens planted with your seeds.
V.
Bismillah, arrahman, arraheem.
VI.
Blessed is he who cries out for peace.
The Lord sees him and sees that he is good.
Blessed is she who dines before the sunrise and loses her life at noon, still clad in vestments of her childhood.
VII.
Eid Mubarak, and peace be with you every year. I've yet to hear from you.
I saw your sister again today. Whatever tinged her voice still holds her.
She said she hasn't written.
It matters who writes, so write a love-letter, I told her.
She's thinking of you.
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 11:55 PM UTC
I'd rather die than listen to your poetry.
**** pellets of perfection,
Forget rhyme, rhythm or talent,
Leave that **** for the poets,
The saps and the *******
Don't start with that alliteration.
No pantooms or odes.
I'd rather place my head on the chopping block.
I'd rather watch blood with such high viscosity,
That it flails and leaps toward the opened mouth,
Pleading "no more! No more!"
Feb 22, 2011
Feb 22, 2011 at 1:02 PM UTC
ALL I can give you is broken-face gargoyles.
It is too early to sing and dance at funerals,
Though I can whisper to you I am looking for an undertaker humming a lullaby and throwing his feet in a swift and mystic buck-and-wing, now you see it and now you don't.
Fish to swim a pool in your garden flashing a speckled silver,
A basket of wine-saps filling your room with flame-dark for your eyes and the tang of valley orchards for your nose,
Such a beautiful pail of fish, such a beautiful peck of apples, I cannot bring you now.
It is too early and I am not footloose yet.
I shall come in the night when I come with a hammer and saw.
I shall come near your window, where you look out when your eyes open in the morning,
And there I shall slam together bird-houses and bird-baths for wing-loose wrens and hummers to live in, birds with yellow wing tips to blur and buzz soft all summer,
So I shall make little fool homes with doors, always open doors for all and each to run away when they want to.
I shall come just like that even though now it is early and I am not yet footloose,
Even though I am still looking for an undertaker with a raw, wind-bitten face and a dance in his feet.
I make a date with you (put it down) for six o'clock in the evening a thousand years from now.
All I can give you now is broken-face gargoyles.
All I can give you now is a double gorilla head with two fish mouths and four eagle eyes hooked on a street wall, spouting water and looking two ways to the ends of the street for the new people, the young strangers, coming, coming, always coming.
It is early.
I shall yet be footloose.
5.6k
Take heed of this small child of earth;
He is great; he hath in him God most high.
Children before their fleshly birth
Are lights alive in the blue sky.
In our light bitter world of wrong
They come; God gives us them awhile.
His speech is in their stammering tongue,
And his forgiveness in their smile.
Their sweet light rests upon our eyes.
Alas! their right to joy is plain.
If they are hungry Paradise
Weeps, and, if cold, Heaven thrills with pain.
The want that saps their sinless flower
Speaks judgment on sin's ministers.
Man holds an angel in his power.
Ah! deep in Heaven what thunder stirs,
When God seeks out these tender things
Whom in the shadow where we sleep
He sends us clothed about with wings,
And finds them ragged babes that weep!
4.4k
Ring Out, Wild Bells
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light;
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.
Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more,
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.
Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.
Ring out the want, the care the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,
But ring the fuller minstrel in.
Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease,
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkenss of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.
3.4k
Trump feathers his caps
faux wings fly his maps
in mind's pond, gold laps
a big ego he claps
his faucet lost taps
a drought he play wraps
behind two faces yaps
of how he fills gaps
enough of his craps
where our poor dig scraps
and our rich gift wraps
enough watching saps
with twitter backslaps
and infidelity bootstraps
enough of this cold snaps
as our leader naps
of dreams his madcaps
I say impeach, asap(s)
than befall his traps
Logan Robertson
5/31/2018
May 31, 2018
May 31, 2018 at 2:02 PM UTC
Let's face it
its more ******** warfare
culturally they are used to faking it
as thimbles and chipolatas in ninety seconds
do not reach first base much less seeing stars on cloud nine
hence they woke and fake the reality they chose be it feel or fright
in woke solidarity against frustrations they cloned their made-up foe
what better than sturdy shining Mandingo loaded and tied up
there for the having to your heart's content
presented to you the untamed beast
the wild moor tooled hot and ready
raw animalistic unfettered passion
rock hard we can name him Rocky
that goer that delivers every time
the one that is all your men aren't
and can never be cause he's gifted
sleek like dolphin in rhythmic glide
tasty like fresh clean mushroom
Arabian stallion if ever there's one
with absolute pedigree and class
take a break from the mediocre
from the wham bangs no can dos
from the floppy quick-draws saps
imagine the dark horse with the most
in smooth soft pink leathery velvet
tis your secret your guilty pleasure
tis the obsession you made into a war
the fantasy that plays in your heads
tis behind fervours that haunts you
that you so well disguise in hatred
telling metaphors slip out Freud
hold him down, grind him hard
wear him out, let's wreck him so
the sado masochistic 'punishing him'
give him a hard time, it all says a lot
you twist innocent sentences into
****** innuendos and innocent actions
are falsely given ****** meanings
as morn noon and night you toil
you troll and agitate for attention
yes you twist turn bite and nibble
in Freudian throes you talk love
you glaze unrequited love relentlessly
you close your eyes and dream sweet pain
yeah! get real, its no psyche warfare
its a flutters obsession, it's the classic '
"The lady doth protest too much, methinks."
its how you float your boats and and get yer thrills
you better face it you're all addicted
It's an ******** War-fare and you all know so.....
Jun 22, 2021
Jun 22, 2021 at 7:11 AM UTC
Incongruous by nature
wrapped in ignominious twine
I eat sushi and a 12 dollar slice of cheese cake
Chug two old english and spend the night at the porcelain throne both ends screaming
staring into eyes rapt with fear
all eyes are rapt with fear
Of what then? Death? Shame?
in the rubber belts and fulcrum arms and cogs of the melting ***
all perspectives have value
and the decadence signified in a haircut or a cadillac is nothing more
than the words on the bathroom walls
or little brown note books
Clarity is for saps
Flourish dans l'entropy
Ou mourir dans la peur
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 11:27 AM UTC
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light:
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.
Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.
Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.
Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,
But ring the fuller minstrel in.
Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.
2.5k
“Get ‘em up, Teacher.”
I felt the gun at my back and had no choice but to raise fingers, and said, “Got the drop on me, eh, Judas? Why don’t you pull the trigger?”
“Forget it. We’re going to Jerusalem where I’m going to turn you over to Herod. Pilate’s holding my gang and God knows what he’s doing to make them talk—only they don’t know anything, so they can’t talk. He’s torturing them for nothing but everybody knows the only thing he wants is to get his hands on you.
I’m going to see that he does. That will get him to cut loose my boys and take the heat off me too, see? It’ll be all over the papers when they crucify you.”
“And what will the papers say about you? You don’t know what you’re doing, Judas. Do you think the Romans will let your outfit run the territory?”
“Sure they will.”
“You’ll run it all right—run it right into the ground. You’re not ready for the big dominion, Judas. You’d be getting in over your head.”
“Quiet.”
“You know Herod gets his marching orders from Pilate and Pilate takes his orders from Caesar. Where do you fit in? You’re high and mighty now but those boys will wipe their boots on you and keep right on going. I didn’t come back to get served up on a silver platter. I came to dish it out. Nobody’s going to step on me and get away with it.”
“Quiet, I said. Now move,” he prodded with his pistol.
I walked a little but stayed close to the walls and he shoved me from behind to make me go faster, but he didn’t want me going too fast because that would attract attention.
He called out to the shadows, “Simon!”
There was no answer and he got nervous. “Simon,” he repeated, not wanting to yell out loud. He looked back and forth, taking his eyes off me for a second. I dropped, and swiping a foot beneath his legs toppled him to the ground. The pistol went off and ricocheted off the wall and I kicked the gun from his hand. Simon appeared with his hands held high, the Baptist behind him pushing him along with the business end of his rod.
“What do you want to do with them, Teacher?”
I felt sorry for the saps. They weren’t any better off than when they’d started.
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 11:42 PM UTC
The distance is what makes it so hard
To be here, so far away from your side
To be here, as if snared in the lies
That you miss me as I long for times gone by.
To know what I had… To let it all go...
Your smile, your laugh and your touch
To know they are gone, never to return
It tears me asunder, it saps my soul...
The realization is what makes it so hard
To know that you were never mine
I could have had it, but I couldn’t grasp
It slipped my fingers, how could I be that blind?!
The shadows are what make it so hard
To let go of your memory and bury you in the past
I feel it clawing at me, it is screaming so loud
It won´t let me forget and it brings me down under its weight
As I measure this sadness in pounds
My failure streches on for miles
And liters of tears flow from my eyes
If only I could purge these hours from time...
And it is there, as it has been since the first day
The emptiness, the silence, the space
As time ebbs away, and life goes on
Mine came to an end
The moment I let you go.
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 11:38 AM UTC
Have you felt its bite?
The terrible
Horrendous
Ever-opening
Maw that
Threatens to
Devour all my
Certainty.
It gorges upon all that is
Bright.
Black breath flows
Over me
A
Blight
that saps my strength
My soul yearns to take flight!
Yet here i remain
Paralyzed by the
Gaze of this unrelenting
Beast,
Doubt.
Will there be
Restoration?
Can i hope for
Resuscitation?
Or is my yearning
Merely the
Death throes of
Passion
Burning
Burning
Burning
Out like a
Candle
Lit dinner?
It shall not
Come from you,
Romance.
You rose-colored
Vagabond.
Food for the maidens
Dream.
Despoiler of my
self
esteem.
i require another
To sustain
Me.
i know it can
Be found.
One who can
Remove this yoke
From me.
Who can vanquish this doubt?
Who shall turn my discordant
notes
of Sin
Into a sinphony?
He is the
One
That will catch my boulder
As it threatens to crush
Me
At the bottom of this
Hill.
So come to me!
i haven’t the strength to yell.
If you can hear
Then
You are
Well acquainted with
My
Bones
Breaking.
i am not
Strong.
Of this i
know
For the wilting of the
Lily
Told me
so.
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 5:20 PM UTC
Two wayward souls lost at sea
Depression weighed heavy on he
Terrified of this cold world was she
Drifting alone,
The sea salt saps hope
Of a good life, even as the storm passes
This tired man flats into the Abyss
Drifting alone,
The dark ocean pulls at pad foots
No concept of love, an void concept
Abandoned home, drowning her tears
By nature's fortune, enter the whirlpool
Which graciously accepts the lost
Drifting together into the danger
The torrents send them off
Two wayward souls lostin each other.
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 10:10 AM UTC
If I had a dollar for every poem I wrote....
I'd have like a billion dollars
Because I would just write a program
that spits out random words and phrases
Then someone would tell me that they're
only going to pay me 50 cents per poem
if I'm going to be like that.
I'd be like "Whatever, dude...that's still half a billion dollars"
Can't be greedy, you know.
Then they'd try to pass some sort of law defining what a poem
can and can't be, spending millions of tax-payer dollars to stop
me from writing poems like this:
SHITAKE DUCK FOOTBALL
magnifying glass eats adolph ******
can I be valentine bubblewrap
I think so maybe
I peanut butter 1975 Yankees
Did you ****
Robocop.
The judge would rule in my favor. That would really ****
off the poor saps that had to pay me for my poems.
Doesn't really matter though....
No one pays me for this ****
Jul 13, 2012
Jul 13, 2012 at 8:39 PM UTC
while some seasons introduce beauty,
you bring upon the harsh cold of winter so suddenly
the frigid cold that rapes polar deserts in the night.
unlike the dance of the trees in autumn
when the leaves shake off their burdens,
the whirlwinds of your poisoned ego grasps and chokes away the new leaves
the hardened winter cold saps away the eternal beauty
of the glistening flowers waking in spring
but you twist and churn their stems
it was once the warmth of summer that your eyes greeted mine
emitting the heat which entwined our bodies
like the intense rays of sunshine upon a sandy beach
though i trust nature,
a monster like you,
i do not.
Aug 7, 2013
Aug 7, 2013 at 12:10 AM UTC
a poem for the perturbed
partially peeved
marginally miffed
indirectly disturbed
not for those in love
not for loss or for longing
not for the haughty highbrow
half hazardly happy saps
that drown you in their
dizzily delerious
words about joy and wonder
this poem is for the average joe
joe sixpac joe normal
kicked back, laid back
ignoble informal
working class
pain in the ***
foul mouthed, burnout
college drop out
that doesn't have two
sweet words to rub together
this poem is for me
and you... if you want it.
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 9:31 PM UTC
You remind me of my cold bitter coffee.
Better yet, my cold bitter coffee reminds me of you.
Once upon a time it was warm.
Like you.
Now, It makes my stomach sick when I sip on the stale sweet leftovers.
And if you didn't catch the pattern, like you.
Still I find myself mindlessly reaching this past hour while sitting in an ambiance ridden coffee shop, listening to other saps who've been suckered into lust, beating out their soft sorrows with melodies in the background.
I bring my cup to my lips, tilt it back, expecting to be infused with a sense of belonging that's no longer there.
I'm searching for you in my coffee cup, but all that's left is ***** looking walls and lipstick stains.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 12:31 AM UTC
At the coldest of all times,
In the presence of harsh weather,
I as a grass,
As helpless as ever;
Too much cook spoils the broil,
That's why grazing brings so much boil,
To the forsaken grasses,
Who can deliver their spleen to nobody,
Favour! But to themselves!
The rain flogs the hell,
The sun scorches the heaven,
Out of the grasses, as a spell,
They can deliver their spleen uneven
Favour! But to themselves!
The brainless bulk of extractive meat,
Also move to them to cheat,
And graze until they are tired,
Mindless of whether the grasses are fired.
Do they not know that the **** of the fowl aches?
Or do they pretend that they do not.
Can they just eat their cakes?
And continue to keep their font?
Being a grass,
For full days of the hours,
I see our helplessness,
I feel the harsh treatment we have received,
And the many ways we have been deceived.
Erosion comes and sweeps us away!
Rain falls and saps our nutrients away!
Sun shines and shrinks our leaves unprunned!
The brainless bulk of extractive meat graze and
chew us away!
Our colours turn to milkless tea!
At whose mercy are we?
As a grass, I cry, I weep
But no help comes...
I'm short of words...
Yet no help comes...
Nigeria!
Where is the future of your people-the grasses!
As favour is to themselves!
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 10:51 AM UTC
On barstools, people drone on endlessly
about meditation and yoga and hot yoga
or cold jogging, and bicycling in special pants.
‘It gives you a high,’ they say.
‘You’re on top of the world,’ they scream.
The saps push their new religions
with the gusto of car salesmen.
When it’s a woman, I politely listen
between mouthfuls of whiskey and ginger ale.
When it’s a man, I shut him down
early in his ramble. I tell him to
grow a pair.
Curvaceous women with long hair
and ***** that easily get wet,
bourbon that melts the top layer of ice,
pocketing a few bucks after sinking the 8 ball,
those are the legal addictions,
I tell punks
that give a man small escapes,
the sins he commits to feel whole.
A man who knows the desperation
of fulfilling temptations always
works harder to stay one step ahead
of the game.
Those are the addictions,
I tell men in designer clothes,
that **** us
slowly
when we least expect
our demise.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 3:40 PM UTC
Dreams dance under the glare of the sun’s moodiness
Blood vanishes from the veins of once dead men
Medals of tarnish float along a river of bedridden nightmares
Soft drinks pierce the heart ache of an ancient lover
Coffee mugs litter the world’s tainted breath
Cake mix splatters the wall of any old soul’s happy day
Laundry baskets of forbidden desires clutter my mind
Australian needs rise up and revolt against the will
Steadfast now, the winds have changed and blow upon
new dreams from the shorelines of an imagination.
Hindrances break even with the mob, blowing jobs in the faces
of masked gods under none.
From what does the truth set you free?
And what sets you free from love?
Cerulean dreams dart like angels to the ball
Woe to the marching band stuck at the disco
Tripping on bumps in the sidewalks as if the flaws
were meant to convey the illusion of perfection.
Bumping into dreams while on day trips to a place legendary
among the star screamers of yesterday.
Played with market chiefs in the fishy dreams of villains
Heroes rise from the ashes of who they wish they could really be
Hunger penetrates the enigma in which livestock consume the diet
of better days and healthier people.
Strangers.
Blanket thieves.
Snuggling with the poverty of heart stricken saps who ****
the life out of the tear duct orifice between theses beautiful lashes of grace.
Come with me,
let’s escape to a world of ours.
My imagination has room for
Two.
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 9:16 PM UTC
I can smell their cowardly fear
their frantic desperation is palpable
they stink frustration and boiling envy
their lies, scams and foul smears unravelling
coercised crowd seeing them for the scums they are
they garner contempt hidden for fear of not belonging
a lot afraid to tell them they no longer buy into their mischief
behind their wicked backs the immigrants are disgusted and sick
sick of their characters, their indulgences and their empty arrogance
The immigrants know it's all racist hatred
they now know the poor man did nothing wrong
know how pathetic and sick these wanton devils are
know these spoilt ignorant rabbles are souless juveniles saps
laugh at them behind closed doors amongst themselves silently
while pathetic thieves and ****** associates boast of their power
power of cowards and scums and workshy semi-illiterates sad fools
resenting success and hard working people who put in the hard graft
jokers and fantasists too stupid to really see what's happening in light
Jan 20, 2019
Jan 20, 2019 at 10:25 AM UTC
Blood is poured across my body as I lie here
These priests are priests of sacrifice
Sacrifice of blood, body and humans
They pleasure in ****** and grotesque displays of death
They will laugh maniacally while they stab women to death
And have a smile of sated pleasure standing over a child's corpse
Their god is nonexistent
As most gods are
But lying on this altar with blood over me I feel a presencelo
Of power and vicious tyranny
Is this maybe their god I feel
Or my own fear attacking me and making mr feel it
But somehow I still feel it
Then a voices like black blood
Like lifeless horror
Like grotesque sadism
Like everything I have ever feared
It says
"MINE"
And across my vision I see a smile
That saps all my strenght and resilience
And qttacks my soul
And with that I loose will and let the knife slid into my heart without caring
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 3:20 PM UTC
Skin
Still sensing
Still sore
From scratches
Still sensitive
To sound
Like shockwaves E D N
S N I G
Repeated
Repeated
******** ******** ******** ********
Sensations of
V I B R A T I O N
H Y D R A T I O N
Tongue torn
Sore
From tickling licking
Skin with sharp
E
D
G
E
D stubbles
Sore *******
Nipples sore from
Hardening
From bites
And from
Fingertips fondling
And sore muscles
Aching from f
l
e
x
i
n
g
Arching
Repeated contraction contraction
X
CONTROL A
M
I
L
of C
Fire
Sore sensitive
Succulents
Sore from oscillation
Provocation
Still soaked
In saps
D R
I
P
P
I
N
G
Devilish desire
The mind's eye
Sore
From mimicking
Mo ve ments
Imprinted
In memory
Driving me
MAD
I want more...
Mar 3, 2013
Mar 3, 2013 at 5:44 AM UTC
He told his sister to feed the dogs,
His twin sister; Sophia Bogvoskya,
As he was to take out the herds
Of horses, sheep, donkeys and cows,
Out to the plains and hill land for grazing,
She never took a **** she locked herself,
Up in the ante chamber of the main house,
She took the mirror and began looking
At her beauty, Russian model beauty
She began picking her nails,
As the dogs were starving in the sheds
They whined but no succor came forth,
A fiat that coincided with arrival of ogres,
The great Western Ogres, the tongues wagging,
They had a plethora of eyes and mouths,
Noses and ears, limbs both hind and fore,
They ate all the young sheep,
They took away Putin’s young brothers
Crimea and Ukrainian, both were taken away,
By the ferocious NATO ogres they were taken
In a whelp and desperate kicking for freedom,
Dogs stood aloof as ogres thrashed Sophia
Into thin lacerations of red flesh,
They ate as they roared with laughter,
Then they went away with their loot,
Vladimir came back home, found nothing
No sister, no brothers no sheeplings,
Only two white sepulchers glared at him,
The graves of his mother and father;
The former cooks of Lenin Vladimir,
He mourned and mourned grievously,
Then he sang a dirge of his forefathers
From the herculean land of Bosnia,
And also Moscow, he dirged;
We were born in the wee of the night,
When the bear is whelping,
And we were suckled by the Tigre
When our mothers were taken slaves,
For no man or creature
Will ever make us victims
Nor subjects of fear,
He recovered from the moment
Trial some moment of loss and bereave,
Then he chose to go after the ogres
But with a strategum of no match,
He began arming himself first
Before he could set on,
His mobile armory full of deadly weapons;
A bunch of wasps, wild bees, black ants,
A thousand slings, spears and sickles,
Machetes, poisonous saps, and toxics,
Wild dogs, five hundred snakes and scorpions,
Bows and arrows as well as cudgels,
Clubs, stones and chains,
He also learned how to use the hands
In the most lethal manner,
Then he went for combat,
To rescue all that was taken,
Taken from him by the ogres….
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 8:38 AM UTC