"shabby" poems
This trumpeter of nothingness, employed
To keep our reason dull and null and void.
This man of wind and froth and flux will sell
The wares of any who reward him well.
Praising whatever he is paid to praise,
He hunts for ever-newer, smarter ways
To make the gilt seen gold; the shoddy, silk;
To cheat us legally; to bluff and bilk
By methods which no jury can prevent
Because the law's not broken, only bent.
This mind for hire, this mental **********
Can tell the half-lie hardest to refute;
Knows how to hide an inconvenient fact
And when to leave a doubtful claim unbacked;
Manipulates the truth but not too much,
And if his patter needs the Human Touch,
Skillfully artless, artlessly naive,
Wears his convenient heart upon his sleeve.
He uses words that once were strong and fine,
Primal as sun and moon and bread and wine,
True, honourable, honoured, clear and keen,
And leaves them shabby, worn, diminished, mean.
He takes ideas and trains them to engage
In the long little wars big combines wage...
He keeps his logic loose, his feelings flimsy;
Turns eloquence to cant and wit to whimsy;
Trims language till it fits his clients, pattern
And style's a glossy **** or limping slattern.
He studies our defences, finds the cracks
And where the wall is weak or worn, attacks.
lie finds the fear that's deep, the wound that's tender,
And mastered, outmanouevered, we surrender.
We who have tried to choose accept his choice
And tired succumb to his untiring voice.
The dripping tap makes even granite soften
We trust the brand-name we have heard so often
And join the queue of sheep that flock to buy;
We fools who know our folly, you and I.
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I was treated like the VIP,
A cat and a big fish,
A hook and a big Six,
whilst visiting madam bow-peeps
rotisserie of *****
Always receptive,
Wearing open silk
working 9 to 5am.
With a little overtime,
hot funk never satisfies,
She had the way-with-all
to feign, delight; even interest,
before negotiating the price,
Two shekels,
She was classy,
kind of slick,
she tickled my ears
for nothing more than kindness,
a small token in exchange for a smile.
She popped on a tune,
as she took off her dress.
The petting started
her two hands tugging with the zipper of my jeans.
A woman's touch... Ha HA,
the rich sultry kiss of *****
tight and tasty;
***** like a ripe tomato,
Sugar fried and drunk.
She opened her legs,
her hair smelled like shampoo,
She was on her belly,
knees tucked up
as I took in the fruit,
deep holes filled with **** and shabby fingers,
hollow spit and angry poison,
head spinning to the groove,
loud and high,
The bed squeaked
and a single light bulb dangled
like a loose tooth,
Ten minutes and
two ******* love songs!
Sick and spent up,
I got dressed to leave,
I said with a poke,
"I couldn't get laid,
Not even in a ***** house!"
And now I'm back in the cold again,
only dirtier.
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 4:50 PM UTC
evening loneliness arrives at dawn
and knocks on the dusty windowpane
in the kitchen, i lie — with threadbare arms —
against the shabby wooden cupboard frame
this house is void of all electricity
except for the light bulbs, the fridge, the T.V.
and my steady-beating heart of rhythmic defeat
lying naked across the tear-stained sheets
if you come home and find that i am dead,
perhaps some ***** dishes fell on my head
but most likely, i'll be, in the living room gloom
with a half-drunk bottle of wine to consume
with emergency flares tied to both wrists,
i'll leave you a smile, a sigh, and a kiss
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 7:52 AM UTC
I reminisce too much.
Besides, what else is there to do?
Remnants of the past, fragments
Still squirming in my conscience
In some vague room
A flicker of my smile, a candle, a black robe
And my button down shirt
Laid across the floor for you to step on
And you carefully tip toed
To catch me in time, but I wasn't falling
The seasons have passed exceedingly slowly
But now, I am smiling again
My nights are somehow less tormented
It is beautiful today and I have things to do
But before I leave and conquer the week
I pause, if only for a moment, in this sun lit room
I touch the French window
And leave you behind, one last time
Like shabby finger prints on unstained glass
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 3:01 AM UTC
I look up from my book
to find beams of warm sunlight
touching my face,
the chugging of the train
accompanied by its whistling,
become my aural companions
for the journey,
as I look at scenes that
unfold before my eyes :
I pass by hawkers
trying to sell their wares,
their calls mingled with
joyous voices,
of children
excited about their
first train journey,
of families
on their way,
perhaps, to attend a wedding,
or to celebrate the birth
of a much awaited child.
I see :
village belles toiling away
on fields;
shabby looking buildings
speaking of years of neglect;
temples ringing with the sounds of
bhajans being sung with religious fervour,
bells being tolled, pleading
the gods to look down
from their divine abodes;
roadside stalls filling the air
with aromas of food,
promising hearty meals.
They are all ephemeral sights, and yet,
they have become a part of me -
the smells, the sights -
they shall bring back memories
that will become my companions
in solitude.
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 4:17 AM UTC
Though in dexterity my physically challenged carpenter father,
Than the physically fit proves better,as a source to his anger,
With contemporaries a level ground he enjoyed never!
From late childhood there was one thing that me used to bother, why my so discriminated father
On his turn true to cultural dictates,ill treats my domestic chores saddled mother
And heeds not her say though by the sweat of their brow
As responsible parents they were happily bringing my sister and I together?
I still wonder why ,why ,why my sister who has IQ
On par with me if not better,to help out mother
Suffering a cold shoulder even by her mom was denied the right to pursue education further
While I was given a chance to prove a man of letter(s)?
I remember, crossing many a pool, barefooted, I used to trek
A long distance to a nearby town's a school,
Where for my provincial and shabby clothes I was seen a fool
By the relatively rich in showing courtesy far from cool.
Though stationery they didn't lack , sad,I had a hand tied behind my back.
Alas,up on joining campus where I yearned for the sagacious a chance
There too in my class,I was looked down by students
Hailing from families of the top brass.
When I went abroad for a higher education enjoying fellowship and donation
Worse still, I met many, colour has coloured whose vision.
Ironically my dissertation was drawing attention
To why should the broad mass be standers by
And with ill-fate marked die
While the favoured ,racist and the corrupt few gobble over 3/4 of the pie? /
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 3:11 AM UTC
I feel ugly.
Like,
the dark spots on a full moon.
The burning skin under the crisp sun.
The harsh stain of vibrant colours on a canvas.
The violent shade of the monsoon cloud.
The rustic smell of an old key.
The sad wrinkles on a tree trunk.
The tired stretch marks on a shabby body.
Or,
the birth of a life.
I feel less. I feel pigmented.
I feel lost. I feel strange.
This is my beauty to taste.
To embrace.
Jun 27, 2018
Jun 27, 2018 at 8:00 AM UTC
When shall we learn, what should be clear as day,
We cannot choose what we are free to love?
Although the mouse we banished yesterday
Is an enraged rhinoceros today,
Our value is more threatened than we know:
Shabby objections to our present day
Go snooping round its outskirts; night and day
Faces, orations, battles, bait our will
As questionable forms and noises will;
Whole phyla of resentments every day
Give status to the wild men of the world
Who rule the absent-minded and this world.
We are created from and with the world
To suffer with and from it day by day:
Whether we meet in a majestic world
Of solid measurements or a dream world
Of swans and gold, we are required to love
All homeless objects that require a world.
Our claim to own our bodies and our world
Is our catastrophe. What can we know
But panic and caprice until we know
Our dreadful appetite demands a world
Whose order, origin, and purpose will
Be fluent satisfaction of our will?
Drift, Autumn, drift; fall, colours, where you will:
Bald melancholia minces through the world.
Regret, cold oceans, the lymphatic will
Caught in reflection on the right to will:
While violent dogs excite their dying day
To bacchic fury; snarl, though, as they will,
Their teeth are not a triumph for the will
But utter hesitation. What we love
Ourselves for is our power not to love,
To shrink to nothing or explode at will,
To ruin and remember that we know
What ruins and hyaenas cannot know.
If in this dark now I less often know
That spiral staircase where the haunted will
Hunts for its stolen luggage, who should know
Better than you, beloved, how I know
What gives security to any world.
Or in whose mirror I begin to know
The chaos of the heart as merchants know
Their coins and cities, genius its own day?
For through our lively traffic all the day,
In my own person I am forced to know
How much must be forgotten out of love,
How much must be forgiven, even love.
Dear flesh, dear mind, dear spirit, O dear love,
In the depths of myself blind monsters know
Your presence and are angry, dreading Love
That asks its image for more than love;
The hot rampageous horses of my will,
Catching the scent of Heaven, whinny: Love
Gives no excuse to evil done for love,
Neither in you, nor me, nor armies, nor the world
Of words and wheels, nor any other world.
Dear fellow-creature, praise our God of Love
That we are so admonished, that no day
Of conscious trial be a wasted day.
Or else we make a scarecrow of the day,
Loose ends and jumble of our common world,
And stuff and nonsense of our own free will;
Or else our changing flesh may never know
There must be sorrow if there can be love.
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Cheers!
We praise our lined faces. We forgive time.
We raise our cups of double-pressed wine.
We know brute forests from our seed-time
We know heaven will cleave those we entwine
The season of heat is slow to erupt.
April is late. March is still covered with snow,
Its shabby sheet weak shoots barely interrupt.,
Succession and succession is what we know.
In the thronged marketplace we know we’ll find
Lines of who came before and who came after
All seem in be arranged by some infinite mind
Knowing where our line goes will not stop our laughter.
We dance. All dances are in our repertoire.
We know we’re headed to that sacred abattoir.
Marc Tretin
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 8:12 PM UTC
***Put on your yamaka, it's time for Hanukkah
So much fun-akkah to celebrate Hanukkah,
Hanukkah is the Festival of Lights,
Instead of one day of presents, we have eight crazy nights.
But when you're the only kid in town without a Christmas tree, Heres a list of
people who are Jewish, just like you and me:
David Lee Roth lights the menorah,
So do James Caan, Kirk Douglas, and the late Dinah Shore-ah
Guess who eats together at the Carnegie Deli,
Bowzer from Sha-na-na, and Arthur Fonzerrelli.
Paul Newman's half Jewish; Goldie Hawn's half too,
Put them together--what a fine lookin’ Jew! [Esus]
You dont need Deck the Halls or Jingle Bell Rock
Cause you can spin a dreidel with Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock--both Jewish!
[Esus]
Put on your yamaka, its time for Hanukkah,
The owner of the Seattle Super Sonic-ah celebrates Hanukkah.
O.J. Simpson-- not a Jew!
But guess who is...Hall of Famer—Rod Carew--(he converted!)
We got Ann Landers and her sister Dear Abby,
Harrison Ford's a quarter Jewish--not too shabby!
Some people think that Ebeneezer Scrooge is,
Well, hes not, but guess who is: All three stooges. [Esus]
So many Jews are in show biz--
Tom Cruise isn't, [tacit] but I heard his agent is. [Esus]
Tell your friend Veronica, its time to celebrate Hanukkah
I hope I get a harmonica, on this lovely, lovely Hanukkah.
So drink your gin-a-tonic-ah, and smoke your mara-juanic-ah,
If you really, really wanna-kah, Have a happy, happy, happy, happy
Hanukkah……. HAPPY HANUKKAH!***
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 10:35 PM UTC
This is the quiet hour; the theaters
Have gathered in their crowds, and steadily
The million lights blaze on for few to see,
Robbing the sky of stars that should be hers.
A woman waits with bag and shabby furs,
A somber man drifts by, and only we
Pass up the street unwearied, warm and free,
For over us the olden magic stirs.
Beneath the liquid splendor of the lights
We live a little ere the charm is spent;
This night is ours, of all the golden nights,
The pavement an enchanted palace floor,
And Youth the player on the viol, who sent
A strain of music through an open door.
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His head kept bumping on my shoulder
and he was not my father
or anyone I knew
he smelled as if a bath was overdue
and slept like wasn't a place better
than the ***** briefness of my shoulder.
Breaking down was my brittle patience
needled by his bristled cheek
brushed by his shabby dress,
was for rest the man hard pressed?
Wouldn't I have been nudged by pride
if the head on my shoulder was my father
happy to have him by my side?
as he gets older
does his blurry mind miss
a place where he is not alone
one or any shoulder
for an untimely nap in peace
a quiet stranger to rest upon?
May 30, 2018
May 30, 2018 at 10:31 AM UTC
I have a lot of them pretty clothes;
Short,long or medium skirts.
Shabby,decent or just mere blouses.
Short,long or medium dresses.
But none can compare to my favorite little black dress.
Its neither too short,nor too long.
And I cannot even classify it to be medium.
Its entire length is knitted in black
As it has stitched in white,
A belt that covers the waist.
Its not a very big belt though,
Too little actually.
But I love my favorite little black dress.
It is not because I can wear it to any occasion that I love it;
I can wear it to dinner,
And yet be comfortable enough to select even my favorite musozya to be my meal.
I can dance for the whole night when in it.
I can meet even the scariest of inlaws in it,
And shake the hands of the most respectable people while having its belt clenching my waist.
My favorite little black dress.
I just love it
And it is not because I got my first kiss in it.
Nor is it because I had just taken it off,
When my lover devoured my flesh and took my innocence with him that night.
Leaving my decency to cling only to my skin,
As if it is on my favorite little black dress.
I kicked a ball in it,
As the boys whaled 'goale! Goale! Goale'
Thinking that since I had a dress for a garment,
Then the goal,I would surely miss.
And yet I didn't.
In my favorite little black dress.
That night when I danced with him,
I wore it.
I could tell my father too,
Appreciated how lovely it made me look on this day,
As he led me to the dance floor,
And yet;
I wasn't even the bride.
My favorite little black dress.
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 8:50 AM UTC
Life’s all getting and giving,
I’ve only myself to give.
What shall I do for a living?
I’ve only one life to live.
End it? I’ll not find another.
Spend it? But how shall I best?
Sure the wise plan is to live like a man
And Luck may look after the rest!
Largesse! Largesse, Fortune!
Give or hold at your will.
If I’ve no care for Fortune,
Fortune must follow me still.
Bad Luck, she is never a lady
But the commonest ***** on the street,
Shuffling, shabby and shady,
Shameless to pass or meet.
Walk with her once—it’s a weakness!
Talk to her twice. It’s a crime!
****** her away when she gives you “good day”
And the besom won’t board you next time.
Largesse! Largesse, Fortune!
What is Your Ladyship’s mood?
If I have no care for Fortune,
My Fortune is bound to be good!
Good Luck she is never a lady
But the cursedest quean alive!
Tricksy, wincing and jady,
Kittle to lead or drive.
Greet her—she’s hailing a stranger!
Meet her—she’s busking to leave.
Let her alone for a shrew to the bone,
And the ***** comes plucking your sleeve!
Largesse! Largesse, Fortune!
I’ll neither follow nor flee.
If I don’t run after Fortune,
Fortune must run after me!
2.8k
A tired looking lady
With eyebags
Crumpled, wrinkled clothes
That are too big for her
Disguise whatever
Little curves remain
Her eyes
Dull
Black
She is drenched
Striding inside
Without a care
Like she belongs
In her shabby, shabby clothes
With her hair
A complete mess
She is soaked through and through
The thunder roars again
Muted due to the glass and steel walls
She walks in
A tiny spark
A flash of something
In her dull, dull eyes
People gossip
About perhaps an affair
A failed marriage
A mental breakdown
For one of those reasons
Maybe all of them
Generally, she comes
In the subway
Very particular
About umbrellas too
Today, she carries none
Little Miss Particular
She walks into
The manager's office
A letter neatly typed out
Black and white
Shielded by her brown
Worn coat
Three sizes too big
She has been working
For seven years at the firm
She puts it on the table
Says a polite, 'Thank you,
But I cannot do this anymore.'
And, she is out
Onto the streets
Her eyes
Still dull
A lady with crazy hair
The rain pelts down
As she disappears
Into the fog
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 12:10 PM UTC
so this is where it ends
still drunk, in a shabby room with half full bottles of liquor
last night stuck in your hair,
glitter like snowflakes of a single night out’s winter
this is where it ends
heart broken, shattered in two
hung up and longing two years after
his name a poison on your lips you refuse to stop tasting
this is where it ends
wallowing in dreadful self-loathing,
contemplating your idle blues, your black hole of sadness
the smile you wear is but a painful reminder
this is where it ends
with your small group of girls, fellow high heeled warriors
lip glossed and pretty, shiny hair and perfect skin
dressed to the nines, miraculously young and fearless
intelligent, outspoken and strong and far from empty
too broken to do anything but go on
more nights will be filled with hollow, tinkling laughter
more nights will be spent lying on floors than waiting in towers
all because you forgot them all
your forgot his harsh whisper
you made up you mind and decided
“i love me”
and laughed at the sheer terror,
the insanity, the undeniable ridiculousness
at the end there is just you
this is where it ends
this is where it ends
This is where it ends
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 3:33 AM UTC
We've heard of a woman's grace,
And romantic fables of her charm.
But delve beneath the surface,
And stir waters outwardly calm.
A woman, if pleased is divine
And will do plenty to prove her grace.
when angry she'll turn serpentine
And descend like a meteor from space.
She’ll be sarcasm personified,
Every sentence riddled with a taunt.
You’ll be slandered and vilified,
And derided as shabby & gaunt.
When pleased she’ll be friendly and chatty
And lure you to reveal your fears.
But soon she’ll turn vile and catty,
And delight in your failures.
She won't leave a chance to ridicule
And bring up things you’d rather forget.
She will attack with every feminine tool,
And force you to mull and regret.
And when you've had enough of her satire
And try to give her a piece of your mind,
She will breathe out tons of fire,
And to crisp she'll burn your behind.
So don't **** a woman to show
Her ****** and vindictive side
Be a gentleman if you don't want to know
That Far from being Jekyll, she's Mr. Hyde
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 5:07 AM UTC
fed the birds.
fed the birds a
book about
my dead
weight.
fed the
birds a heavy.
fed them from
my thin
hands. The words
that live.
The birds ate.
The birds ate words that
lived and always
lived
in
separate
houses. if...
and i mean if
and only if
they
could afford
it.
if these
clever pagans
ever had
a dime.
they found
it boring rich
folk to
death.
i fed the birds
my indigenous
nomads. they dined
in high style...
dined black and
fancy
on
shabby
addicts, as they
hopped
trains . i fed the birds
my
swarthy tribe.
and they supped.
i fed the birds
a monologue
with trains of
thought
the words i fed
them... the vagabonds...
hopped
trains.
of thought.
I fed
the birds.
i fed the birds just
outside.
i sat
and fed them
black light and Harmalade
fed them blackly
fed them with
piano keys; the black
ones, the ones
that radiate
i fed
i watched them. watched
them fancy peck. and peck
and fancy
pluck.
i watched. they dined
on serene defeat
by technicality.
it was surreal
to watch a blackbird
pluck from black
keys - peck
a morsel of glum
from
the black rays, yes.
the black rays with
opposable thumbs
and a
lifeline. the only one i
know forbidding gypsies
with three eyes.
an open
palm.
a paranoid
black radish
white dwarf star
with piano keys
for black rays
of
nimbus, yes
mine is the hand that bites the hand
that writes the book
it wants
to ban, that ain't
a fan
not at all. just an appendage. a pen dirge ? What ?
i fed the flock lots
I fed
the black ones -
with dolls'
eyes...
tucked
under
wing.
i fed them, yes.
a book
about the size
of any welcome
malcontent.
i fed
them sorrows
and ellipses with
adjacent lawns.
wutherings in
stately manors, squatting
on either side
of memory
lane, like
a bourbon and
coke had
practically crawled
across shards
of hard
things to break,
with a drink
in your
hand
and crawled, well blended
down the hatch
of enormous, well appointed
gothic frogs, that -
were mostly refurbished toads
with odd columns.
i fed
the birds,
broke out the
Good
Chi
na
hang the tantrums !
yes
One should expect
a rich metaphor to want to
watch you
eat it's every
word
or
by extension;
lick the toad with 15 rooms,
three stories, unfit for children
and a full staff
of Adjectives,
highly trained
to
short-sheet the Bedlam, and fluff the pillories.
one should sip the liqueur
off the floor, inside the huge
and tipsy
gorgon
and be thankful
for the dank
and
the solid gold flyswatters.
they're complementary. take one
as you leave out
thinking
" toads, eat flies.... so it follows...."
apropos of nothing, on the
' Good China ',
now in the belly of birds, well fed
an unwell.
a book about
my dead-weight's
dream
to eat fewer
flies and
more
steak.
to grow wings.
yes.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 11:23 AM UTC
Spring sunshine's loving glance
lights a repondant glow
in all things young
but she is not so kind
to the old
where man has been
exuberant nature is evidenced
in decline and decay
riotous hedgerows
unpruned trees
lank lawns
while nature prepares
to don Easter finery
the best you'll get from man
is shabby genteel
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 4:01 PM UTC
Somewhere along the line, you changed.
You built walls all around you
and wore armor against the world,
You guarded your heart so well you could behave as though you didn't have one at all,
Even now, it's a shabby broken thing
but you still have it.
Not a heart of stone nor of ice,
But a fragile heart of glass
Sharpened through all its edges to stop anyone from getting in,
To stop the pain from getting out,
I understand why you wear armour,
That's why I wear it too.
Feb 9, 2022
Feb 9, 2022 at 3:14 AM UTC
I was seventy-seven, come August,
I shall shortly be losing my bloom;
I've experienced zephyr and raw gust
And (symbolical) flood and simoom.
When you come to this time of abatement,
To this passing from Summer to Fall,
It is manners to issue a statement
As to what you got out of it all.
So I'll say, though reflection unnerves me
And pronouncements I dodge as I can,
That I think (if my memory serves me)
There was nothing more fun than a man!
In my youth, when the crescent was too wan
To embarrass with beams from above,
By the aid of some local Don Juan
I fell into the habit of love.
And I learned how to kiss and be merry--an
Education left better unsung.
My neglect of the waters Pierian
Was a scandal, when Grandma was young.
Though the shabby unbalanced the splendid,
And the bitter outmeasured the sweet,
I should certainly do as I then did,
Were I given the chance to repeat.
For contrition is hollow and wraithful,
And regret is no part of my plan,
And I think (if my memory's faithful)
There was nothing more fun than a man!
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Where is it ye Scallywag?
Have ye hidden in it ye bag?
Don't ye look at me as brass as bold
Give me back me *** o' gold
I will put a curse on ye, no surprise
Make ye eat spiders and flies
I always make ye feel sick
Ye thieving little Shabby ****
I want it back! It's all mine!
I know ye got it, I saw the sign
So I will grind your bones for me tea
I will make ye live in eternal misery
Don't ye run! Don't ye dare!
I will hunt ye down, track ye everywhere
Bury ye under this earth filled clump
I will snap ye spine when I jump
Well! Blow me down with a wee feather
Look at that! Well I never!
I must have moved me crock only yesterday
So ye canna steal it away
I placed it safe and sound
Buried it there, hidden in the ground
So I now will be on me way
Doth me hat, wish ye a good day
Jun 27, 2010
Jun 27, 2010 at 6:47 PM UTC
Mops, thistle, bells and whistles; make this, poet.
With circus flair, out of fur and shabby things... _make this._
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 12:22 AM UTC
Yes she was fragile.
Yes she had a fake smile.
People conjectured her life was a dream come true
Did anyone ever come to ask her out of the blue?
No, her life wasn’t a fairy tale.
For every time she tried to stay happy, she failed
They may call it a castle but it was definitely a jail
Who knew behind the smile was craving,
Inside she was asking for one saving.
Han, you got it right he was just another stud
Trying to take off the petals from the bud The situation was just like a prisoned bird.
As tears rolled down her red cheeks
She wondered what she seeks.
This was not how she wanted it to happen.
For life was even more darkened.
She knew she wasn’t happy,
But she didn’t want to make her life more shabby.
She kept trying to fight that grudge,
And started to live on that chocolate fudge.
This was not what her heart was wanting
Every time she closed her eyes her brain was shouting.
Maybe he wasn’t bad after all
Maybe he didn’t want her to fall.
But it was too late to decide,
Lying in her bed she just wanted to hide.
Life had left her with no option
Maybe it was time for another love adoption.
Yes, she was fragile
Yes she had a fake smile.
She tried! She tried to build that spark,
But she couldn’t, maybe because they had different hearts.
Jan 21, 2018
Jan 21, 2018 at 1:42 PM UTC