"shushing" poems
She was the rain
when I was spring
but summer became I,
alas it was just a fling
Naked branches in a
dendritic pattern
fastening on to leaves
as Fall fell.
But drives away the soft snow
the blizzards unwanted
a stormy winter
unexpected
Skyward, the dark side of the moon
drawn to the faint traces of light -
continuously teased the edges
of the forgotten surface
obsession consumed I
to start a spin
I grow to become the
hunter only to see
the chamois conquering
my struggle
like an insect trapped
in the strings of
the eight legged
she beast
beating a
rhythmic tune
signalling a
tell
tale
heart
the end of me
no bang
only a cleaver
silently shushing
with an overdrawn
whimper
and
repeat.
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 3:31 AM UTC
Why are librarians always mean?
They act like they are the queen
of the library scene
They are in charge, that is true
they make that clear when shushing you
if only they actually knew
people only go to the library to pass through
they ***** and fuss all day
and treat children like their prey
they all turn into a cliche
if only there was another way
they are lonely crotchety old ladies
who took their dreams and turned them into maybes
some of them had wished to write
or edit famous books into the night
but alas here they are in old schools
screamin' and yellin' all day about the rules
I think that's probably why
they take pleasure in making children cry
Forever they'll sit at their desk
growing in old age grotesque
when you see a librarian make sure to scurry
unless you want to feel her wrath and fury
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 9:08 AM UTC
there was no poem neath my pillow
no poem on my tongue, none from eye envisionaries, no dew gift from my grassy emissaries, parting residue of an unknowable finger touch
nothing stirring, the mother muses mushing their shushing noises,
only breathy quietude, an airy surround sound tissue,
the cadence of intermingled hearts, the mother and the child
two awakenings, one instantaneous, the other restless unhurried slow, but within an impatience to intersect,
the overlap is love stars crossing,
impatience weaponized to make
momma aware her companions refreshed status,
a needy for love’s suckling,
embrace of fresh baked smiles from hot heartedly hearth furnaces
thus a-born a new poem, a welcomed well coming, in words,
the alliance of alliterated words from the interlacing of the mother’s chest heaving and the sniffling joy of a five year old boy reimagining the dreams that crossed from mother to son, and back again, requiring composition and joint authorship of them
*the only and only true authentic authorship,
mother and child, their owned unique
duality of singularity*
Feb 7, 2019
Feb 7, 2019 at 2:30 PM UTC
As soon as I heard the rumble of my husbands car
fade into the distance,
I put down my Bible, stepping out of bed.
I smoothed out the covers, like always.
because I'm not one to leaves things messy
because cleanliness is close to Godliness,
that’s what they say.
I fiddled with the faucet
testing the water on my hands.
The kids don’t like it too warm.
I left the door open
so I could hear the faucet running
all the way down the hall.
I opened the bedroom door
and squinted as I flicked a switch.
Let there be light!
Three sleepy faces peeked out at me
from underneath their blankets.
Such precious eyes looked up at me.
Poor things,
Daddy had just put them to bed.
They yawned and blinked their shiny eyes
and we all held hands as we walked down the hall.
They told me
Mommy, Mommy, it’s not bathtime.
I answered,
No, it’s not bathtime, it’s time to go.
They asked and asked,
but I just smiled down at them.
What curious little miracles!
The boys went first.
I placed one hand on each of their heads,
my fingers in cornsilk hair.
Their confused wailing
bounced off of the tile walls.
I silenced them with shushing sounds.
I told them don’t be afraid.
Don’t be afraid, Mommy’s got you.
Mommy won’t let go.
Mommy won’t ever let go.
I smiled at their tiny, twitching hands
and laughed along with their gurgling voices.
I wish they wouldn’t have splashed so much.
That’s just like the boys;
they were always making trouble.
How inconsiderate of them
to leave less water for their sister!
I laid the boys down to rest
and gave each one a kiss
on their clammy foreheads.
They were side by side on Earth,
now side by side in Heaven.
I lined them up next to each other
Like sweet little packages.
Little packages sent up to God.
I left my princess to float.
She just looked so pretty I couldn’t move her.
I could see her so clearly
once the splashing had stopped
and the water settled.
She was so beautiful
with her hair swaying
just beneath the surface.
My perfect angel.
I left her to float
like Moses on the River Jordan.
With my little cherubs put to rest,
I return now to my Bible,
but this time it’s not for reading.
I place it in the oven
and lay my head on it
like a tiny sacred pillow.
So that I can rest too.
and I'm not afraid
because it's time to go.
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 1:46 PM UTC
Lars lifts opens the toilet seat. The hinge squawks and he mimics the sound with his mouth. A dumb smile folds out on his face like someone unrolling a beach towel. He sits without dropping his pants or underwear. The cops are just about to leave through the screen door. Maggie offers a departing sacrament of right out of the oven of crispy flakey Pillsbury biscuits. They wave their hands parallel to the ground refusing. Maggie pulled the biscuits out too early. The bottoms are tan and dimensional but the tops are sloppy. They look like they have a glaze but they don’t have a glaze. They are pasty but still hot to the touch. The pan is hot. Maggie is wearing maroon oven mitts. One of the cops gets his foot snagged on the throw rug. They walk with their heads down but don’t notice the curled edges of the throw rug. They notice a black pug named Roger instead and nearly avoid fumbling over him. The cops scatter outside quickly like ducklings crossing the street. Lars’ dumb smile lingers and he laughs with a shushing lisp. He reaches between his legs into the toilet bowl. His hand disturbs the water. His nose is bleeding. Maggie closes the doorwall after the cops leave. The cops left the screen open. Maggie reopens the doorwall, closes the screen, shakes her head, and then closes the doorwall again. The kitchen is humming with improper wires. The light is electric pastel blue. The linoleum is too ***** to sleep on. Maggie’s ******* can be seen through her shirt. Lars wipes his nose with his arm and shoulder. He is hunched digging into the toilet bowl. He pulls out a baggie with a twist tie on top. The baggie looks reused. Maggie enters under the frame of the door and her lips roll out like a beach towel. The ******* in the baggie is very very dry.
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 7:56 PM UTC
The urban legend going round the mummy club
A woman
On a tube
Breastfeeding her baby, 5 months old, under her t shirt.
Not **** out
No feminist flags waving
No brazen cocky smile.
Just a hungry baby and a mother made by nature
And some milk
"Put em away Love", slurs an ugly man halfway down the carriage.
The other passengers are divided.
Some sink deeper into their headphones, under their broadsheets.
The others are ready for revolution, sit up straighter and plan an attack phrase or a protective move.
But this is what she's been waiting for since she so triumphantly became a successful, proud breastfeeder.
With a wet plucking noise she pulls her baby from the ****** where he was so contentedly feeding, where his warm little head was halfway to milky coma dreamland.
And she holds him aloft, her grip is confident and full. No one is afraid she will drop him, but he does not want to be there.
And in the stark light of the carriage, arms and legs chilly and free in the air he begins to flail them about. His voice throws out mews to every window of the carriage, turning into scratchy shouts as his protest gets stronger.
Until the baby, in a blue furry jumper, little bear ears for cute effect, is screaming.
Red faced, and with tonsils and tongue vibrating in the storm of his voice.
Arms and legs swimming frantically, looking for the bank of the river where warm mummy sits.
And over the storm, mummy looks over at the swaying, squinting man and shouts,
"WOULD YOU PREFER THIS?"
In one movement she cradles the yelling blue cub, shushing and quietly speaking to him as only a mother can, offering her ****** to his mouth until his round fuzzy head is bobbing and his mouth quietly busy resuming his meal.
"Or this? " She looks over at him.
The man mutters to himself and looks away. At the next stop he gets off the train, tripping down the step onto the platform.
The mother releases the challenge in one large breath.
She looks up at the two young men sat in front of her.
They are smiling, staring in awe. Choking and speechless one of them starts to applaud her.
Clapping her and shaking his head, his mate joins in.
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 6:01 PM UTC
Great whales’ hearts thud
Allah … Allah
Eight times
Each grey
Minute
The hummingbird calls
Faster, much faster
The name in
A whir of
Acclamation
Knuckly stiff fingers
Count misbaha beads
In resin while
The mind strokes
Each for a second
A baby’s colic cry
And a mother’s
Soft shushing
Hold a meaning
Understood
The aches of the
Lonely and penitent
Are never felt
By only
One
In everything lives
The memory of
An echo of that
First word
“Be”
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 12:00 PM UTC
I know you'll be busy
When you're back at home
I know you'll forget me
More often than not
I know you'll find love
Over and over again
Without you by my side
What am I to do?
Life got much more enjoyable
Since you arrived here
Living seemed so easy
You lifted weights off me
How much can I take
When you're no longer here?
No longer by my side
Shushing me to silence
Peace came in your presence
And so did simplicity and grace
Loving became so easy
Smiling, second nature now
Please don't forget me
For all the memories
Will never be lost to me
They'll be kept locked
Far away in my heart
On a treasure island
Designed by our souls
Hidden from all evil
Keep in touch
Till I come to see you
And am allowed
To peep into your life
Even just a glimpse
Will do of seeing your smile
Even your tears will suffice
As long as you remember
That through it all
I will be here or there
Not to catch you
When you fall
But to prevent
Your fall
In the first place
My friend
Don't forget me
When it's all done
When we look back
At the good old days
Don't forget me
When I become but
A memory in a far away
Past, so quiet, so lovely
Honey, let us be friends
Till the sun goes down and
Lovers have stopped making love
And raindrops fill the Earth
Till the winter comes
And the bears go to sleep
And the Indians ain't got meat
And the horizons are no longer in sight
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 6:21 AM UTC
~~~
Happy Hanukkah Brother Nat!
~~~
*this poem is not for young lovers,
seasoned soldiers of the heartfelt only need apply,
give me my merry mercy-naries to save me
from criminal holiday insouciance,
shoot me with the rounds of caring,
that come so fast
and last as long as I can
nod and wink...*
~~~
used to drink inspiration
from Manhattan sidewalk rain riveted cracks,
turn half overheard street conversation snatches
into half decent poems by Nat(chez),
professors turning phrases, upbringing a brain ratcheting,
choreographers, dancing in body and spirit and word,
in summation, a thief of opportunity...
these days, the pattern prevailing,
the El Niño de Natalino,
is drawing up works
from the wealth of messages and comments,
my troubadours, my y'all youse guys, share,
so as I compose,
not knowing where this goes,
I'm just simple knowing,
that a heartfelt reach out,
addressed as
Happy Hanukkah Brother Nat!
deserves the recognition of its sweet intent,
in a lyric all its own,
like a traditional festival
Hanukkah jelly donut (true1)
t'is the seasonal affectation of salutations
all commencing with happy,
never struck me as anything deeper
than surficial superficial,
but this time its textual emendation -
the inclusion of genuine brotherly love,
loops, Humpty Dumpty cracks and swoops,
and here I am fastening word combos,
when the clickty clack of the clock
says uh-uh, poem in the making,
natural verbal child birthing, sleep hours docked,
and here I am,
begetting instead of shushing
a day-older brain to get-thee-to-a-hideaway...
*this poem is not for young lovers,
seasoned soldiers of the heartfelt only need apply,
give me my mercy-naries to save me
from criminal holiday insouciance,
shoot me with the rounds of caring,
that come so fast
and last as long as I can
nod and wink...*
sooner than later it will be the Fourth,
and in my eyes a day-deserving of a fireworks spectacular,
though the month matters not,
the sentiments of brotherhood and live love,
independent and freely given,
deserves enhanced ignition recognition
and herein supplied...
you had me at the greeting so fleeting,
then ask my advice,
is there to be had a greater compliment,
so my mien and demeanor are now modified
an oath sworn, till the infamous 31st,
every passerby and child
will be bequeathed a shockingly rowdy,
Happy and Merry,
sincerity coated
and tinged with you know what...
~~~
Dec. 3, 2015
nyc
11:12 pm
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 11:27 PM UTC
The glamour,
the lights and flashes,
the gold and the silver,
I call it home.
Crowds filling the seats,
then the shushing,
then the quiet,
and it starts.
They watch and follow,
little prying eyes,
where your feet goes,
where your fingers glide.
After all,
I'm a performer,
and this is the stage
that I call home.
But who stays
after the velvet curtain call.
When the show is done,
who remembers?
And what is remembered?
Aside from the weary bones,
broken ribs,
and flailing arms.
Who stays?
To sit on the red seats,
in the dark,
to watch a wretched performer?
Oct 5, 2021
Oct 5, 2021 at 12:50 PM UTC
And the sun is rising.
A crisp winter dawn is giving birth to this great city.
Rays of light kissing one way signs with promises amidst the building chaos.
The ear-spitting labour song gathers momentum and breaks into a cacophony
of horns panting, rails screeching, breaks shushing,
crowds pushing, rushing to the sound of can I get a hoagie?
a bagel, black coffee, eggs
scrambled into the pulsating clouds
light with smiles and heavy with the fuming of exhaust pipes
contracting to the crowning of car bonnets and head lamps and taxi cab signs
dancing in a place, to a pace and a rhythm constructed, conducted
by a lone woman in blue with benign brown eyes
leading a symphony of brake light beating, feet pounding, bus groaning,
venders sighing, newborns crying, school bus squealing,
pedal revving, fingers drumming, foot tapping pedestrians building
to erupt in a crescendo of a man asking to buy a cigarette for a dollar
and refusing to accept it for free.
To a heavy building door held open by a New York giant inviting me in;
welcoming me to the raw, ragged, rich, beautiful carnage
of the afterbirth.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 9:39 AM UTC
Envisioning that fruitful destination
Syncing her beats to each seconds
Yearning for a scented authority’s presence
Losing herself into a euphoric voltage
Pandemonium of such motives
Were always there..Always will be
She knows them. She longs for them
Every single time. Every single night
Surreal substances start to charge up
Making such explosions ready
Playing with an amorous fire, already
Expanding. Flaring. Urging. Settling
Surreal shade transforms
Into a crashing truculence
Calling that raw paradise of an ecstasy’s cage
Spreading between such lusciousness
Contemplating that dash of her lustrous rage
Shushing herself, oh so quietly
She awaits..
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 11:07 AM UTC
I hear you calling me
whispering softly
blowing my hair gently
a featherlike touch on my face
I hear you calling me
in my dreams
silencing my screams
shushing my troubles away
I hear you calling me
in tranquil times
smiling benovently
revelling in my good moments
I hear you calling me
always
I hope I hear you
always
I miss you
always
I love you Grandad
always
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 7:53 AM UTC
By. Lauren
Silence,
Silence,
Silence,
Shushing.
Why is it we sigh in relief?
A leap for joy when no words are to be said.
The fading of a pounding sensation in the head.
The souls who most long for it seem to never find it.
Silence,
Silence,
Silence,
I must shush now before my words become poison to someone else's mind.
Apr 11, 2019
Apr 11, 2019 at 7:31 AM UTC
not the prophylactic kind,
nor the rubber kiss road tire kind.
but the rubber of bodies
old and young,
tired and tense,
young and flexible
migrained, played & splayed,
pain paralyzed,
soothed by cherubic
fingertips
oiled with,
anointed by,
a-custom cream
of tenderizing aloe
and gentling, kind loving
quieting & shushing
tho mine own temples,
raging, feverish,
combobulating
as words spill as *********
and then
*she
sleepy whines:
why did you stop rubbing me?*
and for
a sleep deep,
she leaves
me,
going unanswered
but happily
nonetheless
boy be typing
The End
Jun 22, 2025
Jun 22, 2025 at 12:08 PM UTC
good god a gaggle of girls
read the dispatch thrice; the hierarchical lines some straight and some dotted but all I know they got a genealogical baseball team femi-nine
and maybe an NFL eleven when the twins get older
(husbands and sons ride the motorcycle bench and
back up if necessary, and good for musical accompaniment)
~oh yeah,
for Medusa~
this megillah message team meant for me to assauge my
mother hubbard accusations only partial reveals the player’s names:
but if you google a
gaggle of strong women you become informed there is a:
Queens Esther, Miriam, an Eve, four matriarchal outfielders, Batsheva pitching and only Ruth, can catch her **** curveball
in between an occasional poem gig whose costs are covered
under the mental health clause of a health care plan
but only in
California
too cavalier, get it, you prefer this perhaps
sinewed strength in arms that can
carry three children at once,
age is not a factual issue,
for there is an army of
women soldiers who are a troop contingent,
everyone’s back is covered always-full stop-
they curve like the Earth’s crust,
magma formed strong and mineral rich,
curved to better resist
the comets the heavens cannot resist
to send & test the mettle
of a gaggle of stronger women sinewy arms entwined
reenforced
alas
the grandpa must here resist and rest,
lunch prep before Sgt. Stubby movie at noon,
in reclining chairs they ride like wild horses
and all our shushing noisier than their giggles
just google a gaggle of strong kids,
you’ll see what I mean
in this, we do possess a giggle of expertise
sunday 10:15am
Apr 15, 2018
Apr 15, 2018 at 10:28 AM UTC
Walking around amsterdam airport with a bag smelling like tea tree oil a flight, a bus , a coach and a 25 min walk to go ---
but for now,
I'm standing in the wrong line.
Twice.
He calls me out in 53 seconds bursts/
Stinging laughing tears trickle jump ooze --
It was only a matter of time until he would see this deeply,
only I didn't think it would feel so much like
questioning what it is I actually want from my actions and why I'm destroying so much to get there.
Or finally knowing that my self consciousness manifests as a narcissistic, heavy missile on the other side of existence.
Or that I'd be thanking him, even through this blurred pain in my chest.
That I would push away just to feel that tidal pull of love's metaphysical gravity spool and spin , turning vortexes, drawing me back to him as the worlds we built burn , rendered to fragrant ashes.
Some where else
it feels different,
lighter...
In the world behind my eyes
landscape weather systems....
swierall /
cloaouudss! We are playing
despite the uncertainty
still,
life lives her vibrant hues through me.
watchu playin at fool !!
Dance where the music is , let her 10pm sunset strokes caress you to sleep.
My centre's essence clear water sustenance
ready to flow through these charred veins,
giving myself over to mystery,
you are further away then you've been still
geographically I'm the closest I've been to you since last.
board the plane
love rushing forth for the angered tiredness from your voice runs rings round my mind,
prompts me
I'm praying now, in ernest, to Great Spirit that I may have the humility and strength, humor and vision in this becoming....
time is shushing me now,
give yourselves the healing space, she croons as I sleep sailing through the atmospheric ocean.
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 2:55 AM UTC
Rules are only boundaries
Set in place to break
People only want to see
The side of you that's fake.
I walk on the wrong side of the street
I live my life toe-tapping to the backbeat.
I can't dance or even clap
Rocking in my own little world
They don't hear the backbeat
And so call me absurd.
Thunk-tap, thunk-tap
***** that bounce, jump ropes turn
All you hear is thunk, the tap
A language you can't learn.
Try to cover me, the shushing falls in sheets
But try as you might, you can't drown out the backbeat.
Think of life with no backbeat
Thunk thunk it's simple song
A perfect and boring example
Of where we all went wrong.
Thunk-TAP, thunk-TAP
The backbeat comes back in, beginning now to swell
Thunk-TAP, thunk-TAP, thunk-TAP, thunk-TAP
Faster, louder, a rhythm you can't quell.
This is who I am, I'm turning up the heat
Rendering you uncomfortable in the echo of my backbeat.
Jul 2, 2016
Jul 2, 2016 at 2:57 PM UTC
Bobbing to a swaying gait,
Torch light bounces at the edge of the world.
Laughter and larks hushed like the shushing waves,
As we crumple daisies and kick the tops off mole hills.
Home is only a field away,
But in the adjusting night, sleeping undercover never seemed so
surplus to requirement.
Clear skies, rum-bellies,
A watery film between the heavens and earth make freckle impressions on the sky,
Blemishes on perfect tone but it's all the more beautiful for it.
Deep indigo, emerald green, pillar box red then bed.
Zips bid the outside world goodnight.
Goodnight to hedgerows and gorse and guide ropes.
Goodnight rabbit warrens and linnet nests and bog asphodel.
Goodnight puffins and the minky whales and the surf.
Goodnight salty hair, goodnight cold noses, goodnight.
Oct 23, 2019
Oct 23, 2019 at 10:51 AM UTC
"Do you think less of me?"
"Why would you even consider that thought?"
He sounded offended.
"I guess failures make you less of a person."
He pulled me into a hug and breathed to my hair.
Shushing the chaos that took residence
in the crevices of my thoughts.
In that moment, failing seemed
to be worlds away.
He looked at me like I was magic,
and maybe I was.
Maybe I was too preoccupied
highlighting my flaws,
and there he was counting
all the amazing things
that I deny day in and day out.
He looked at me like I can do anything,
and maybe I actually could.
Maybe I could be invincible,
because it sure as hell felt
like it whenever he smiles at me
with the silent words saying
"I'm proud of you, always."
Maybe I am set for
greater things, maybe I am so
much more than I give myself
credit for,
maybe I am meant to be a
supernova in the vastness of his galaxy.
How could this amazing man
hug a ticking bomb as if
cradling a new born child?
How could he see past the
imperfection and still call
me beautiful?
How could a man like him
exist in a world full of
doubts and cynicism?
And maybe I am actually winning
in life despite the failures
because I have him.
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 12:11 PM UTC
Somedays I'm so angry all I see is red
And it can't be fixed by words said
Sometimes I'm so lost in my own head
I feel I've lost months of my life
Theses moments filled with strife
People all around, but it's just me crying in front of that mirror
Am I ever gonna be someone's wife?
Or are things as grim as they appear?
They're are days so dark just the thought of leavin this bed hurts
Another day no show at work
The fact that most days I couldn't care less
Well, that stress could lead to an early death
Some nights I stare out my window
Staring at all the twinkling stars
I really question my life's purpose
The moonlight shines bright on all my scars
My head carries on like a circus
I bury my head in my knees, covering my ears
Shushing the negative voices that have been with me for years
Everyday I know I'm whining
All the time I want an easy fix
But nothin every sticks
All the time these chains are binding
I have to break free
This self hatred is quickly killing me
The key to unlock this madness lays on the floor just outta my reach
Taunting me
I think I get it
You gotta practice what you preach
Today no matter who's near, I'm the only one who can change
My eyes start to droop
Been up for days, so it's not all that strange
Over thinking, under doing
Under going
Glaring at the key
As if its all knowing
But I look at myself in the mirror again
The key does know how to change this gloomy fate
Going in this direction I'm clearly far from winning
Still not sure what I'm losing
Everything, everyone is gone
And I'm fading out like an over played song
I'm losing me to me
I slide to the ground, chains clinking against each other
All wrapped up I lay my head down
Stare out the window
My mind goes blank
And tonight for a short period of time
Life lets me be
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 9:12 AM UTC
Unlike the slow and groaning gloaming,
A creeping darling
Moaning morning
Heavy lashed and lulling
With a shushing fingered longing,
Puts her eyes on, limp and limpid,
And steals through fields of lamb-licked grass.
In the city, roofs are cracking
And the light is soundly whacking
At the windows of the sisters
Sharing bedrooms with their brothers
And sunlight settles on the curtains
Of a girl who is uncertain
Of the boy she’s waking up with
Who is feeling up her ****
Politeness stops her yawning
On this creeping darling moaning morning.
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 2:01 PM UTC
I’m Coming for you Bob...
To Hull & Back...
to Carver’s Just for the Mushy Peas!
As a little lad, I think on a Sat’day morning, we’d go
to a market somewhere, was it on the docks?
Asked our Brian, he’s smart, he said it were... I thought - he’d know.
...After all the mooching, the tugging, the shushing, the rows
and all me **** “where’s he gone nows?”
If I stuck it out long enough wi’out gerrin’ a clout,
we’d sit inside, or sometimes out,
of a blue striped tent - and I’d eat mushy peas.
There might have been chips,
there could have been fish;
Mam always had fish,
Brian, would have had a pattie... well, he was 12(ish)
Not sure I’d even have known about patties all them years back.
But anyway peas is what sticks in my mind…
and all down the front of me jumper...or sometimes on me mac.
They say - if you haven’t been to Carver’s
you haven’t been to Hull.
Well Bob... I’m coming back!… And’ll
bet,
when I was digging mushy peas
with my fork back in Fifty Three,
it were your Grandad, (also Bob) would have been serving me!
Cheers! And, I know it's cheeky - but - Can I have scraps wi'that?
Dec 30, 2020
Dec 30, 2020 at 10:27 AM UTC