"satirical" poems
Papers, Papers, Papers
Whiter than aching teeth,
Whiter than whites of tilted eyes,
Whiter than funeral wreaths.
My hands shake as I write this,
Filed away myths; Stolen lined sheets
My index finger chained by red tapes,
words mix and ground breaks,
I'm the one the world forsakes
Yellow maize, littered leaves,
all twisted into
black ink and clean sharp white paper blades.
-------"I am in a bit of daze," I tell myself, "look at those flaccid bits;
there lay the logs who use to be the jungle of my childhood dreams."
------"Don't be amazed," I replied, "these leafless branches and twigs are for
your Papier-Mâché degrees."
So I listen to my second self once,
the more logical cynical satirical one,
Treading on the plot of their paper works,
playing crosswords as anxiety uncork
my thoughts turn to the bankable orcs,
just as my career forks
Maybe I should be like my mother,
Marking numbers on a deck of cards-- waltzing with Chance.
Maybe I should be like my father,
Toiling for some rich men's grandson-- seething in Trance.
Maybe I should be like the Other,
Going along with the system-- thanking myself
beneath a cap, a diploma, a piece of paper.
I wore these books like bank notes tuxedoes,
I was promised the world by the credits I borrowed.
Must I go along with the mechanism of their game,
or should I rise up against all odds
Opposing, debating, rebelling against
this bundle, this trouble, funneling me into no-tomorrows
Or must I write it all down,
in my prayers against their lawyers, who need no reminds
Or must I shred, smear, and tear the papers with my own bare hands
But what will I ever be to them, friends?
A papercut, perhaps.
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 9:33 PM UTC
I watch the prom Dance,
In an awkward stance,
my friends walk in with dates,
and the excitement Abates.
Alone in a corner,
I mope like a mourner,
With no partner to dance with,
No gentleman to prance with.
Amidst the mirth and cheers,
My eyes fill up with tears.
I rush out into the open air,
And by Jove! I see Voltaire!
With his satirical charms,
He draws me in his arms.
As I sway to the beats,
I'm waltzing with Keats.
Causing my funny bone to arouse,
Enters P.G. Wodehouse!
Using nonchalant wittiness,
He acknowledges my prettiness.
And then walks in Shakespeare,
Who wipes away my tear,
And my senses curdle like curds,
As he showers me with words.
While I repress the excited child,
I'm swaying with Oscar Wilde.
I'm rendered helplessly mute,
With his phrases so astute.
With a proposal so verse-y,
I'm serenaded by Shelly B. Percy.
And before this fantasy can spoil,
I fox trot with Conan Doyle.
And thus literally seduced,
into putty I'm reduced.
I am platonic-ally smitten,
By the genius of what they've written.
The dating circus can’t make me cry,
because a host of paramours have I.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 3:20 AM UTC
My dear summers dream was to the taste cream
Pass me the triple beam the microphone fiend
Back on the scene simplicity is your complexity
So amazingly like grace I be rockin' the place
Like we Studio 54 shut down the doors
Once the bubbly pours and the **** adores
Ya mental **** ya sentimentals and these new aged millennials
They too satirical I make miracles flow potholes
Creatin' mass mayhem your an inconvenience
Cuz of ya hesitance my presence is known
Without even being shown paragraphs of stone
Hard to crack waxing tracks like a shark attack
Felonious acts we never back down
Til my soul drown in the core of the earth
Royalties since birth new my worth they tried to mirth
At my pain tryna change the game cuz all these cowards
Saying the same thang got dang got dang
Time to chess box like Wu Tang leavin' a stain
On ya reign no tears though I'll be on solo
Rippin' up instrumentals ya know how we do so...yeahhh
From the Sunny to bees that make the honey
Sticky icky like my spliffs be call me smokey
Puttin' fire to mother natures forests check the creases I
unleashes
Rap game mafiaso so so better back back
Or else get dropped lika Domino so here we go!
Here we go!
With the ghetto jams love girls with the derriere's of Pam
Got **** once again it's time to slam
Mics harder than Shawn Kemp ya flows shrimp
That's why ya girl calls me Mr **** no limp
Slick as Rick hello young world tilt and a whirl
Catch the swirl of Qatar Pearls on the neck of ya girl
Suckas better know I'm coming with a blow
Harder than Bowe combined with a super glow
black Saiyan raps slayin' turntables layin'
So I can get wicked lyrics Pickett
like Wilson
Flows in unison formation
of words
Herds a violent surge
feel the purge
We high rising no disguisin'
knockin' out Suckas who jivin' ain't none survivin' ?
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 11:09 PM UTC
Satirical sadness
said the face of the clown,
Under the big top
tears upside down
Twenty five years
of life on the road,
No smiles, no more
has taken its toll
The laughter is gone
and so its said
The show is but over,
So put it to rest
Sitting alone,
in front of the glass,
his reflection is broken
dropping down fast
Make-up streams down
his circus drawn face,
Sitting with no one
in his own solemn place
Dropping his pills,
with a liter of gin
fading so fast
and losing his grin
The big top has fallen,
the circus left town
Nobody cares
the sad clown is down.
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 11:40 PM UTC
(a satirical pop at the Illuminati)
It's time to slay fatted consumer cows
It's time to fumigate the Great Unwashed;
To sow mutation's seeds behind the ploughs
To see the dullard's dreams forever quashed.
How movingly they pray not to be harmed!
How doggedly they work to make a wage!
How prettily they line up to be farmed,
Yet, how they long to be at centre stage!
The Useless Eaters eat their pizzas deep,
Their double fries and creamy mayonnaise;
Produce only some methane while asleep,
And fodder for landfill, throughout their days.
It's time for the superiors to win;
Unleash the virus, let the cull begin.
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 10:15 PM UTC
My heart pounds for your smile, Dogbreath
I like you more than a ****** likes ****
you may be family and I may call you bro
but it’s not ****** when you’re a Juggalo.
I’ll never forget the day that we met
one kiss and I wanted to be your Juggalette
my passion for you burns like a thousand suns
it can’t be contained even if I were restrained by nuns.
My desire for you isn’t even satirical
if you think about it it’s kind of a miracle
drawn together like magnets – how do they work?
and the way you touch my **** drives me berserk.
You wrangle records like a big money rustla
I like Lady Gaga and ain’t much of a hustla
I was born this way, but my heart can grow bigga
if you’ll take my hand and say you’re my *****
Apr 21, 2012
Apr 21, 2012 at 7:37 PM UTC
*chaste pecks from the super-sonic youth
numb lips flutter to the hollowed cheeks of normality
no longer the hand-prints on the guide book to hostility
a pamphlet of rudimentary teachings;
the principles of tolerance and rebellion and acceptance of human beings
a concoction of suppressed psychotic behavior, quick wit, and center of satirical tease
constantly moving with heavy footsteps and heavier hearts
their minds and bodies plagued with actions from a deserted youth
soul lusting over the naivety of people before self-actualization; how crude
do they call it an existential crisis or the daily life of a agoraphobic nobody
shouts from the depths of caged fears that scrape the oblivious flesh in their brain; a bit gaudy
mother, sister, brother, father how your words crush the knots of comfort that line my internal organs
bleeding from the pores of my screams; streams of moon-beams shooting out my eyes; oh, not again!
stomping our metaphorically spiked toenails against the idealism of pop culture
oh, my, how adolescence is the worst kind of torture
cherry slushies lined with cigarettes to create a whirl-pool of nostalgia
recreational drugs and ironic situations to ease our instinctual sense of proverbial nausea
loud-mouthed demons spawned out of clothes-hangers and emotional turmoil
show up in our nightmares that we nick-name ‘a good place to contemplate suicide’
repeated imagery stacked like flap-jacks in the mouths of blissed-out sociopaths
too self-indulgent to include us in to their personal stories so we can observe, record, and assess
i don’t perceive doctors to be particularly and predominantly just and true
but i one time met a doctor who told me ‘being a teenager is perhaps the hardest thing you could ever do’*
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 10:20 PM UTC
What is this
Satirical mask
That weeps self-deprecating tears
Through plastic slits
Down over a contorted smile
That mocks society
In pictoral flagellations
Of an aching conscience.
Aug 7, 2016
Aug 7, 2016 at 1:11 AM UTC
The inadequate bookshelf that sat near the door
that my sister used to call her own was
mostly made up of adolescent reads,
books better suited for preteen girls rather than
intellectually budding young ladies—
juvenile vocabularies and simple, non-complex
plot lines do little to craft and create
worldly, knowledgeable women.
I thought I must spring clean the
naiveté away and replace it with
the works of great authors like
Sylvia Plath
Simone de Beauvoir
Virginia Woolf
Margaret Atwood
Betty Friedan;
ingenious femme fatales that cut down
to the brittled bones of the misogynists
and burned their marrow along with the
ashes of bras and aprons and 350 degree oven heat.
Growing up, to me, seemed like a wonderful epiphany
chock-full of ideas and opinions and
clever, ironic remarks that chased satirical witticisms
like felines to rodents and wolves to deer—
being an adult would guarantee me a say,
a vote
prior 1920’s America
play dress up as a suffragette
women’s rights
femininity personified by dolls in plastic houses.
To be eighteen-years-old,
the goal, the legality, the bright light at the end of the tunnel;
the official womanhood it would bestow upon me
seemed like something almost tangible
with the way that it loomed over my head.
Get good marks
graduate high school
travel back in time sixty years
meet a nice boy
become a “good wife”
have dinner ready by five
bear two beautiful heirs
clean up the messes left in the kitchen
fast-forward to the twenty-first century
go to a good college
find a stable career
settle down if the fancy strikes you
live non-docile and full of passion—
the parallelism of times are severely
di
lap
i
dat
ed.
1950’s America would never be a home for me
because I am much too wild to be contained.
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 12:12 AM UTC
The original verse by Wm. Shakespeare:
Sonnet 18
"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date".
_______________________
The satirical by D. Conors
"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art hot, damp, sticky,
too short, too bright
and too ****** seasonal."
Jun 29, 2010
Jun 29, 2010 at 12:09 PM UTC
They say that music and maths are the worlds unifier,
its non-barrier standard. All can unite in music and maths.
Yet, they forget the literature form of Poetry.
Poetry its long history, dating back to the Sumerian Epic of Gilgamesh. Evolving from folk songs such as the Chinese Shijing, or from a need to retell oral epics, as with the Sanskrit Vedas, Zoroastrian Gathas, and the Homeric epics.
Poetry is the history of mankind. Memorable for its form, rhyme,
meter, subject, symbolism, metaphors, similes, hidden meanings,
Truth, fantasy and fable.
All human emotion, no matter what colour, gender, creed, faith or belief system, is welcome through poetry, gains from poetry, learns from poetry and in return is taught by poetry.
Those lines in a myriad of languages, styles, form and content is mankind's story, a poem can feed your soul 'Invictus' taught humankind through one man's struggle. Not music, not maths.
From a Sonnet to Shi
Villanelle toTanka
Haiku to Ode
Ghazal to Narrative poetry
Epic poetry to Dramatic poetry
Satirical poetry to Light poetry
Lyric poetry to an Elegy
Verse fable to Prose poetry.
We write poetry because we are human! filled with passion.
And other pursuits are necessary to sustain human life.
But poetry IS what I stay alive for.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 8:16 PM UTC
You, Me and the Pink Panther
Also the Mouse in the nest
Eating rubber ***** and drinking chlorine.
Write your Message on the water
And the Moon will tell me
Or let the gravity show me.
The music is tired,
It wants to rest on a glacier
The Perfume is stinking
And the Ink is dying a sad death
Beauty is only history
and time is a mere thought
French is 7=6
And We are floating in a space YET TO BE FOUND
Darkness is made up of too much light
Feelings are Mad Cats now
Now Blood is not Holy
Mistakes are Teachers
And the Computers are tired
They Need a Saridon
Faith now doubts its existence
Leisure can't find time
Colors mean an ugly shade
And Freedom is within narrow confines
Right is now measured by the Wrong
Tears have no place to fall
Words have NO MEANING AT ALL
SENSITIVITY is 'the' disease of Heart
Where Life means a tiring Break
And another child is blessed with Life of Pain
All Undefined shall now die
Motives are the modern vowels
The Crowd is lonely
The World has got pimples
Girls have become Pungent
And Conscious is in Coma
Life crawls under the shadow of past
And Hope for the Future
No One Lives for Today
Mushrooms and cannibals have become Friends
Selling Potato & Mutton Soup
All Needles are telling a lie
The Evil has got Hemophilia
Pride is at the mercy of Shame
Depth is triflingly shallow
The unsaid is still waiting to be heard
While the Expression is feeling Stifled
Blind is the Sight
Dreams are no longer fantasy long
And Deceit is the Common Salt
Happiness is rocking against Triangles
Now Headaches can be tasted
And Sorrows have a Flavor
Money is Dumb, Dumb, Dumb
Love will be born only after death
Only the Weeds on the Graves are Thinking
Chocolates are biting the children
The Heat is turning White
Crosses have become circles
The Roads seem to have lost their way
The Rat-Racers are wandering in the Labyrinth
Its Only Exit being Locked
Silence is beginning to make Noise
And the Earth is planning a Rescue from Humans
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 12:36 PM UTC
I like poetry - I'm a fan,
Sounds illegitimate, but really I am.
Some of it rhyming, some of it not,
Some of it full of the feelings we've got.
I like it quite lyrical, sometimes satirical,
And yes, I'm aware it's much less than a miracle,
But I hear you lay beats and over the top
You rhyme like professionals - really top-notch.
Not being sarcastic, I'm really impressed,
And if I had more then I'd likely invest.
Sadly life ain't so easy,
Much less than breezy,
You do more than just please me,
Please resist the urge to tease me.
I respect you for more than your rhyming
'Cos poetry's about much more than timing.
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 9:28 AM UTC
Moved by the guiding hands of the wind,
While avoiding the living room box's trend.
Although fixate with this generation's iPad,
Or impulse to explore the Xbox's dungeon,
And glimpse the pages of the Forbe, the Facebook, and the likes.
Make time to be in the moment of solace,
A time to dream to explore ideals,
Like floating in nebula avoiding the all powerful black hole.
Navigating the void of the sense of inner torment,
Or charting the boundries of the next voyages of personal task.
One does need to depart from disparity of news,
Or lose sense of humanity by deprived reality TV,
For satirical movies like Idiocracy prophesied seem realized.
One does need to regroup in personal cocoon,
Meld by the silent melodies of beating chest,
Like metronome syncing the keys of the piano to Bach,
While breathing upon the horizon of rebirth,
And find your enshrouded foggy path by beacon of self enlightenment.
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 8:41 PM UTC
The Artist
is one who is not satisfied by the lies of society
nor have they ever been,
nor will they ever be.
The Artist
is one who reflects back the so carelessly discarded toxins of society
so has it always been,
so shall it always be.
The Artist
is not satisfied with what has been created, no matter the beauty
so must it be
for more beauty to be made.
The Artist
is not one for rules and regulations
nor is he one for Authority
unless that authority is the Creative.
The Artist
is the harbinger of God
not in that he is of a particular religion,
but in that he reflects the Divinity of reality
even if in his own twisted, satirical way.
The Artist
is one who is compelled to imagine;
who is compelled to challenge the norms
as well as the taboos
of their time
The Artist
is a Prophet
of the Godself.
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 6:39 PM UTC
Crave myself
for the image
Imagine inside me
Bent pictures,
twisted shapes.
Crave yourself
for the world
Imagine inside you
Ocean crashes,
simple things
Satirical sadness
sets in
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 8:51 PM UTC
The feeble glow
of yesterday's myths
and illogical legends
drift into obliquity
where the pallid shapes
of old friendships
and silhouettes of demented heads
merge
with a splash of light
on the satirical side of solemnity
in the pursuit of profundity.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 2:32 AM UTC
Push, Pull, Click, Click.........and so the Instructions , so Plainly Printed on the Silky Smooth Paper, *SHOUTED-OUT to the User. The User, Pondering in His Best State of Mind, Glared back at the SHOUTING black letters on the Silky smooth Paper. Are they serious, He wondered ? Should I actually do EACH of these steps in Exactly the Order in which they are Presented ? What would happen if I Suddenly , as if I had been Engrossed in some Deep thought, TOTALLY disregarded the Emphatic instructions? The User, not accustomed to such vivid instructions, was at a Quandary as to what to do ! ! Being an Observer of the Satirical Right, Could the User in such an Abrupt state of Mind, Actually curb his intentions, and TOTALLY ignore the Now Blatantly LOUD Instructions ! SUCH Simple instructions to follow,, OR so the Outline implied ! Simply start at Step #A, then proceed to Step #B and so on and so on.... ALL the way to the End and to the FULL completion of said Task. That's All there was TO-IT ! ! but, the words of INSTRUCTION, Now cut-back at each glance with a much Sharper Edge now, Making the reading a TASK of Monumental effort. Push, pull, click, click.. Just that Simple, Printed right there in Black and White, in BOLD Classic letter style for the user to read and complete. _____WHY were the Words now *SCREAMING? and even *YELLING ? All I simply tried to do, MUSED the User, was to "DO-IT"---"MY WAY"--! But NO, the next thing I know , crowing out his words, Here come these words Screaming and yelling, Just like they DIDN'T have anything better to do ! ! Why Me. the User was now complaining, Why Oh, Why Oh ME? _____"WHY-NOT" Blared out the Instructions on the Silky Smooth Paper ? *As the EXPLOSION ripped thru the building , Shattering windows as far as 3 miles away. He COMPLETED the Instructions, inserted KEY in door and walked OUT to SAFETY ~ Glancing Back , HE GLARED at the Smoldering Remnants of INSTRUCTIONS ,, THROWING OFF SPARKS, "AS IF IN DEFIANCE"___of those who *FOLLOW-INSTRUCTIONS"
Dec 29, 2010
Dec 29, 2010 at 3:34 AM UTC
I want to write something great
Manual to eliminate hate
Words that permeate
So we all can create
I want to live in the love
Emotions of doubt rise above
Be at peace no longer feel the rub
My life is not wrong
Or words in a song
In us all lies a new dawn...
Rise like a Phoenix feel your soul burn
Ashes our memories it's how we learn
Know who you are...In you a star
We can go far..Don't need a car
Greatness in all..we rise..then fall
Some of us stall don't hear the call
We all have the tools even the fools
Can't lock up minds for breaking your rules
Politics and laws corruption the flaw
Governments and borders separate us all
Lines in the mind real is a crime
Common sense is even harder to find
Too political..This poets satirical
In us all lies multiple miracles
Here is a taste of the talent we waste
Judge not the generation of cut and paste
Silly my rhymes fracture defined
Free is the style that flows from the mind..
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 4:56 PM UTC
I, the self, saw small subsidiaries of larger rivers.
Then I joined the water and sank deep in its hug.
As if chaos wasn't chaos.
Many simple and small expressions on the cusp of a monstrous wave.
-truly random randomness is absurdity
and absurdity folly.
Until oneself awoke to fleshy folly.
In every satirical ebb and flow
it creates neither order nor disorder because both are illusory.
There is no science of history just the insanity of hounds who trough
luminescence enough
to be dangerous,
gnarling their fangs at me.
In the distance they appear as beacons
but they are only ash now.
Electronic flotation device hovers above the memory,
kinetic nostalgia.
I the oneself can never be a memory
One has to become an objective entity to become a truly subjugate oneself.
-to reject it all,
discard all the objects,
to unplug,
to disconnect.
-reconnect to awaken to divine folly:
Contracting and expanding with the confidence of understanding with wives and
government.
The self thought it was him.
The self, a pariah, forgot the boy.
He became the whole self, the oneself,
and then forgot the self
to gain the self.
The warm plaster mold cracking.
Diseases and the cures both wear masks.
Plagues and reckless panacea are memories that only sort-of work backwards.
I the self,
poor masked sort,
felt the universe's tendons,
felt its flesh.
The oneself waits awake-
amidst the tearing of realities tissue.
Ossifying skin to bone,
to stone.
My muscles remember being metals
molten and dumb
like an Olympian.
Oct 4, 2012
Oct 4, 2012 at 1:42 AM UTC
*Lightning Enchantress & Her Diamond Absolutes,
Moaning Fluxes Of Her Satellite Pursuits.,
Phantasmal Intents In Her Indigo Silhouettes.
***** Eyes & Animatronic Bliss,
Her Cherry Lips Calling For Her Symphonic Kiss,
Inimitable Raindrops & Iridescent Perpetuity,
Condensed Laments Of Her Kaleidoscopic Sphericity,
Purple Palisades & Platinum Charades,
Pheromone Verses Of Her Propelled Shades,
Shapeshifting Reveries Of Her Hourglass Fictions,
Charming Archangels Concealed In Her Convictions,
Glasshouse Perspectives Emitting Luminescent Predictions,
Magnetic Canvas & Her Stainless Vibrations,
Her Aesthetic Amour Diffusing Amplifications,
Satirical Saga In Her Spiritual ******
Lyrical Charlatans Of Her Velvet Creativity,
Crystal Flowers & Supernatural Dreams,
Befuddled Effigies Of Her Cryptic Realms,
Her Feral Gleams Illustrating A Prophetic Queen.
- 02:32 AM -*
Apr 12, 2017
Apr 12, 2017 at 5:48 PM UTC
“See herself..?”
‘Who..?’
“Herself.. there”
‘An’ about her?’
“..Cheating on himself..”
‘Sure she.. that one..’
“Fur coat.. no knickers..”
They scuttle out daily wagging their vicious tales,
Through dullness that dampens their every afternoon,
Ignored by their own; an’ threadbare reflection,
******* each spun yarn an’ sheet out to dry,
Stained with every listless memory an’ lonely evening,
Gossip-hungry, they covet the community swill,
Chomping through the random, unopposed untruths,
‘..husband slayer, heartless siren.. tis’ a mortal sin..’
They make no bones of any acquaintance of herself,
With monstrous-eyed chronicles of salacious green,
Such falsehood is kind to the envious an’ bias ears,
Which tolerate any brazen line to a choir of lewd hymns,
They harmonise each lustful lie; the prime accuser,
Conducts a murky symphony of ***** laundry aired live,
The jury silent, mocking whispered an’ ears into the wind,
As the accused sullen-faced an’ solitary suddenly appears.
Herself stands idly ignorant to the satirical sniggers,
The trial by jealously ends, they turn two faces an’ leave,
No fur, no knickers, no time to wish away the pain,
Curtains drawn, truth quartered - the washing hung
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 11:16 AM UTC
I love anagrams as they speak the satirical truth
(I know tons of anagrams)
E.g.
Here is a great example of how anagrams work for say making a person younger if overweight.
1
A pirate says Yo ** ** then drinks *** so avoid ***** it makes us older and fatter, right? He becomes an old fatty pirate right? Angry grumpy nasty etc...
2
Magellan was a pirate in search of the fountain of youth, right?
3
Watch this magic anagram
Yo ** ** tune unfit fat
=
The fountain of youth
Same exact letters switched around
DaVe
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 11:37 PM UTC
read me literal, dear reader
please - for I never transcend
beyond the obvious
I am in the physical, embodied and whole
and so cannot go into things figurative
or metaphorical,
satirical, persona-cast, parodic or symbolic
*Irony, I've always known, is some contraption
wrought by an ironsmith*
and so to me, dear reader
"He's got the whole world in his hands"
is a ridiculous proposition, makes no sense;
and Isaac Newton was obviously
suffering from concussion
from the literal apple
that hit him hard on his head
when he extemporised:
*"If I have seen further it is
by standing on the shoulders of giants."*
Bah! Humbug! - a scientist and you believe in giants!
Come on Newton - you're nuts! Stick to apples!
read me literal, dear reader -
so when I say my wife is an angel
I mean she's dead and she floats around me
making ****** sure I don't get hitched again
till I too become an angel, or fiend,
however it may come to pass;
and the guy who tells me: "Nice day, isn't it"
when it's raining cats and dogs
is obviously some crazy *******
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 5:01 AM UTC