"smithy" poems
There’s a Devil of a night each year, the night of Mr. Haim!
When the devilish and ghoulie ones come out to play their monster’s game.
And why some would seek to trick or treat on this scary day of dead?
Careful now cause gremlins, trolls …sprites and wolves, will offer up their dread!
Quiet, shush, I hear a pack of creepy-crawly boots…
Ra’atan-Zu and the Boogedy-Boo!
And the skeleton bones, clink…
And the skeleton bones, clink…
The skeleton bones clink.
That crafty-smith of horns and hooves is spying on these kiddies,
As Ra’atan-Zu and the Boogedy-Boo are hunting strays to do their dastardly-ditties.
Quiet, shush, I hear a pack of creepy-crawly boots,
And their costumes, oh-so-foul, the evilest of suits!
And there she is, that little girl who can’t keep up, in a tasty mushroom ensemble.
And the skeleton bones clink in her path to give her quite a tomble!
Ra’atan-Zu and the Boogedy-Boo!
And the skeleton bones, clink…
And the skeleton bones, clink…
The skeleton bones clink.
And Sammy Haim, that smithy-devil, a ***** hoof -igniting ghoul’s desire,
He’s howling out, demanding now, “Put that child to the fire!”
And little does he know, no little bit, not even a small clue,
Neither Ra’atan-Zu nor Boogedy-Boo intend on giving him his due!
For once a year on Halloween they get one night to spaz,
Get down and ***** wild and crazy and play a little jazz!
That little mushroom of a girl will play a tiny fiddle,
Ra’atan-Zu and the Boogedy-Boo, a jazzy duet with child in middle!'
Ra’atan-Zu, Boogedy-Boo and a little girl too as they get down actin’ a spaz! Playin’ all night, howling to the moon and kickin’ out some wicked jazz!
*And the skeleton bones, clink…
And the skeleton bones, clink…
The skeleton bones clink.* *
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 6:31 PM UTC
Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate’er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter’s voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother’s voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night’s repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.
5.6k
They gathered by Williamson Road at sun-up
from neighboring spreads across the Tioga valley.
They came with carts laden with lumber stacks -
with saws, adzes, hammers and sundry tools.
They gathered with the homesteaders bond.
to co-build their neighbor's' dreams.
Sweet music of community echoed off the hills.
Chisels clanged into rock, shaping the foundation,
saws sang into boards to frame a timbered skeleton.
The staccato syncopation of hammers fastened walls
that soon would shelter plowshares, stock and grain.
A smithy leaned over his fire and forge -
chiming iron into sturdy latches and hinges.
Children scurried about mixing squeals and laughter
with exuberant fetching and lifting whenever called.
In two short passings of the sun the deed was done
and a handsome new barn, decked out in a wash of red
was silhouetted tall and proud against the fading light.
Homesteaders gathered at a celebration table
to share a hearty meal adorned by the music
of fiddles, grateful smiles and easy laughter.
Then one by one they steered their wagons home
gazing back at what their labors had wrought -
knowing to the depth of their communal souls
that we are more together than we are apart
Listen up, America! This is the music of community.
We are more together than we are apart.
© 2016 by Robert Charles Howard
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 10:16 AM UTC
strike my eyes lovely
for S. B.
by way of introduction,
when you have gone to confession,
freely admitting you have nothing left for others to harvest,
no seed to plant a new crop, and lies and laughter, interchangeable,
there is no poetry left, not even raisin scone crumbs,
one good friend informs that a forgotten five month old poem,
a computer has selected & resurrected, for distinction
so months later you snicker for you have been seriously
self-kicked away from writing, all your vocabularies,
trite and yellowed overused, and you read
really good poetry and are
slapped-seen-outed by the impoverishment of
your own no-winsome word-smithy,
no delusions, even this, but a-quick script, more a thank you note,
and it’s the only lasting quality is the
genuine nature of its intent
but the poem itself falls bottom of the cliff, short on quality,
a victim of your dissatisfaction
let me explain better
she messages you while the time difference works in her favor,
she reads while you sleep the sleep of the soul-exhausted,
she, scoffing at your claims of motivation deprivation,
as she cherishes this forgotten one,
with words that cannot be ignored
the poem**
strikes her eyes lovely
daggered, this morning phrase cannot go unchallenged
for this a compliment that any poet would
weep for, be inspired by, stung into action,
provoked, ego flattered and challenged to-do more-better,
what writer could want for anything more!
who can own this ability
accept this ultimatum of success, a cross-word crucification
to strike down lovely
the readers eyes, almost all once,
almost excuses me forever
for trying and failing so many times
you smile
but not in the chest where
lovely
needs to strike you
for if you cannot strike the readers eyes again and again, then...
let the moment gleam, and then disappear,
again and again, stored but not restorative
11/21/18
Miami
Nov 22, 2018
Nov 22, 2018 at 7:49 AM UTC
He's a stable smithy
Thinks his genius words are pithy
As he pounds, pounds, pounds
Into the night
Swings his big word-hammer
Never minding lies and grammar
Cuz he's gotta, gotta, gotta
Fuel the fight
With his bellowslike ire
He stokes the fire
As it burns, burns, burns
To his delight
On his huge word-anvil
Pounds rumor and scandal
As they sizzle, sizzle, sizzle
Burning bright
Hones his words untoward
Like a two-edged sword
As they stab, stab, stab
Like a knife
As his words extrude
They can get really rude
As he pushes, pushes, pushes
Wrong as right
He's a stable smithy
Thinks his genius words are pithy
As he pounds, pounds, pounds
With all his might
© 2019 Mark Toney. All rights reserved.
Aug 24, 2020
Aug 24, 2020 at 11:17 PM UTC
Please, please, first listen to this, if you are unfamiliar with this musical piece
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kllZlF6mB2s
~~~~~~~~~~~
you thought you didn't know it,
but you did
somewhere a wedding, a movie
and you thought how beautiful
I hear it
each note distinct, unique and a
passageway to the next and the next
a transcendence
a generation
an uplifting
an arousal
a smoothing
a calming
a weeping
smithy of words,
I have read,
I have writ
words that gut punch me,
round my mouth into oh's,
cause me weeping endless
but this music
arrests and rests me,
miracle each time
I walk on its waters
how utter fools we be
to have "lost" this
for over three hundred years!
I rediscover it each time
somewhere a wedding a movie
and you thought how beautiful
for me, a funeral,
play it for me at
my funeral,
hold it in a
wedding chapel,
so with it,
upon hearing its invocation,
I may thee wed
thereafter, when you stumble on it
our vows be timely renewed,
and
though apart,
together,
we will weep, once more,
transcendent, once again,
ascendant, then and now
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 5:26 PM UTC
The Two-sided mirror
Reeling from your loss, realization sets in like rigor mortis
You're gone
You never could have loved me
I know I will carry the scars till the end of time
Ashamed, I turned my face away from the world
I should've seen this coming. I should've read the signs
I never dreamed I could find love on a cliff so high
To soar with birds. To drink of wispy clouds as they do
It was all a lie
I did not take flight with wings made of your warm embrace, as I had thought
No
It was cruel intent that lifted me up, only to drop me hard
My bones and heart break as I land on the sky
I couldn't understand. Couldn't understand what makes your blood so cold
I still can't
Grasping for reason like air under water
Only to breath lies to myself
So desperate for reason. My heart would not accept what I already knew
Without words you told me everything: “Run away from me. I will hurt you”
I was starving for answers and you fed me lies. Taking you back again. Deja Vu
Like watching someone else, disconnected my actions do not become me
I've grown weak
I've succumbed to the poisonous exposure of your smile.
Of your laugh
of your tears
of your past
of your pain
A sickness from which there is no cure. I will recover, not
Are you afflicted as well? Is it my lips you taste when he kisses you?
Listening to our songs, I can't hear them over the keystrokes of this eulogy of our forgotten love.
Like the loud deafening and sharp song of a smithy's hammer on an anvil made of my flesh, hate and strength are forged like cold steel, quenched in an empty bucket of dried tears
Just another faceless voice reaching out with hands made of electronic ink
Quietly searching in vein to be heard by the only eyes that can hear them in the vast digital vacuum of the internet.....
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 3:36 PM UTC
MAY God be praised for woman
That gives up all her mind,
A man may find in no man
A friendship of her kind
That covers all he has brought
As with her flesh and bone,
Nor quarrels with a thought
Because it is not her own.
Though pedantry denies,
It's plain the Bible means
That Solomon grew wise
While talking with his queens.
Yet never could, although
They say he counted grass,
Count all the praises due
When Sheba was his lass,
When she the iron wrought, or
When from the smithy fire
It shuddered in the water:
Harshness of their desire
That made them stretch and yawn,
pleasure that comes with sleep,
Shudder that made them one.
What else He give or keep
God grant me -- no, not here,
For I am not so bold
To hope a thing so dear
Now I am growing old,
But when, if the tale's true,
The Pestle of the moon
That pounds up all anew
Brings me to birth again --
To find what once I had
And know what once I have known,
Until I am driven mad,
Sleep driven from my bed.
By tenderness and care.
pity, an aching head,
Gnashing of teeth, despair;
And all because of some one
perverse creature of chance,
And live like Solomon
That Sheba led a dance.
1.9k
I, THE poet William Yeats,
With old mill boards and sea-green slates,
And smithy work from the Gort forge,
Restored this tower for my wife George;
And may these characters remain
When all is ruin once again.
1.8k
Adobe skinned mimicry of light,
Piece of pebbly lunar surface fallen
To misty ******* reverse panoply,
Spiny spar of stellar tapestry
Nimbly navigating mortared limbs
In sultry sea-cellar ballet,
Rocky roofed conspirator of clams,
Swarthy pirate, silent smithy of shells.
Aug 13, 2010
Aug 13, 2010 at 10:12 AM UTC
FAR-OFF, most secret, and inviolate Rose,
Enfold me in my hour of hours; where those
Who sought thee in the Holy Sepulchre,
Or in the wine-vat, dwell beyond the stir
And tumult of defeated dreams; and deep
Among pale eyelids, heavy with the sleep
Men have named beauty. Thy great leaves enfold
The ancient beards, the helms of ruby and gold
Of the crowned Magi; and the king whose eyes
Saw the pierced Hands and Rood of elder rise
In Druid vapour and make the torches dim;
Till vain frenzy awoke and he died; and him
Who met Fand walking among flaming dew
By a grey shore where the wind never blew,
And lost the world and Emer for a kiss;
And him who drove the gods out of their liss,
And till a hundred moms had flowered red
Feasted, and wept the barrows of his dead;
And the proud dreaming king who flung the crown
And sorrow away, and calling bard and clown
Dwelt among wine-stained wanderers in deep woods:
And him who sold tillage, and house, and goods,
And sought through lands and islands numberless
years,
Until he found, with laughter and with tears,
A woman of so shining loveliness
That men threshed corn at midnight by a tress,
A little stolen tress. I, too, await
The hour of thy great wind of love and hate.
When shall the stars be blown about the sky,
Like the sparks blown out of a smithy, and die?
Surely thine hour has come, thy great wind blows,
Far-off, most secret, and inviolate Rose?
1.7k
I had a shell,
I used to hide in it,
My body felt a little lumpy,
My brain, a bowl of cold sweet custard,
I got a pen,
I used it,
I smithy my words,
like a blacksmith,
I make them mysteriously heated,
sometimes twisted,
a contortion of simplicity,
I am what I see,
I am what I feel.
Several trod on my shell,
They weakened it,
The shrimp who once lived in the shell,
Shell swelled,
It's broken,
The shrimp broke free,
Came with the gift,
contortions of words,
Spoken and written,
There's one thing missing,
You,
you sweet man,
Same as me,
you, are missing it too!
(C) LIVVI
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 7:01 AM UTC
The black branches contradict the sky
they snag against its emerald cloth
The empty smithy nigh high
in squalid water
casts its furtive shadow.
The boy with steeped brow
rubs his pale eyes,
pallid under the dazed night
he is drunk with lament
a counternance with foretold death
Apr 21, 2012
Apr 21, 2012 at 3:09 PM UTC
He's a stable smithy
Thinks his genius words are pithy
As he pounds, pounds, pounds
Into the night
Swings his big word-hammer
Never minding lies and grammar
Cuz he's gotta, gotta, gotta
Fuel the fight
With his bellowslike ire
He stokes the fire
As it burns, burns, burns
To his delight
On his huge word-anvil
Pounds rumor and scandal
As they sizzle, sizzle, sizzle
Burning bright
Hones his words untoward
Like a two-edged sword
As they stab, stab, stab
Like a knife
As his words extrude
They can get really rude
As he pushes, pushes, pushes
Wrong as right
He's a stable smithy
Thinks his genius words are pithy
As he pounds, pounds, pounds
With all his might
Oct 23, 2019
Oct 23, 2019 at 6:37 PM UTC
An open Rosary,
Sprawled on the table
Has the shape of Eire.
Towns joined like beads
On winding, rope roads.
At the end of the main street
In Shercock, Lough Egish,
Or a thousand other towns,
Looms the church spire,
God's rod.
The square still bustles on Wednesdays.
The smithy's forge
Now lights up a Paddy Power;
The Euro Store sells needles and thread
Where once a seamstress sat;
Shish Kabobs on flat bread sell
Where the butcher's counter displayed the day's cut.
But scrape away the paint
And attend to the devotion and mystery
Of small town Erin;
Where only the pubs maintain names
Decade after decade.
There, on the wall, see the rebels
Enjoying a football match,
And the crowd, laughing,
Has their backs.
Nov 9, 2017
Nov 9, 2017 at 11:33 AM UTC
This will be my final song:
With no chorus planned to follow
Nor daggers sharpened to a point
Or the fired forge to bellow.
For when no one needs a blacksmith
The brazen god’s teeth flicker
Alights the hammer’s handle
And spreads marigold flame to wicker.
The steel alone will shudder
And miss the smithy’s call
With no rage to fall upon them
To etch their egos small.
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 4:37 PM UTC
Saturday Afternoon at the Smithy
Heart-pumped heat wall -
bellow-breathed cherry tip
Tink-tung Tink-tung
spring-hammered hop-head rhythm
bingo-winged ripple, suet and mouth.
Square peg – round hole? No problem.
Hot iron wrought with box-jaw tong tease.
Tight fit. Good. Sweat-drop-splatter.
Wire teeth scrape garnet rifts,
Pig scratch back into scraped coke -
metal to plasticine.
White fizzy sparks fly and hiss
Phlopp – thirsty water stings.
Ferrous blood taste – time for tea.
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 11:11 AM UTC
Now Smithy was as angry as poo
He said Mickey, "Oi, Listen, must you!
Come here for a meeting
It'll be only fleeting
But be there by a quarter to two."
As loud as he dared
With nostrils all flared
Smith ranted and raved
Like he was depraved
No wonder Mickey was scared
He began with a deep fierce roar
And huffed like a bear that was sore
"It's not easy to say
I can't stand things this way
I can't take it like this any more."
Smith blew his red nose on his sleeve
Then said "You must take now your leave
You've driven me crazy
No, I'm not being lazy
I need some more me-time to grieve."
"I know that our feelings were strong
I am sorry that you must now be gone
I'll always love you
You held my hand in the loo
It's not that you did anything wrong."
Now who should replace him within?
Our choices are looking too thin.
I do know a man...
This could be a plan...
A Zimbabwean that has a big chin.
Now the panel has been sacked
The whole system looks cracked
Who is next their line?
Graeme Smith would be fine..
The captain has not yet been whacked.
But what more can we say?
Madness now leads the way.
Since Onions' not out
South Africa have doubt
'bout all that's 'tween night and the day.
Feb 9, 2010
Feb 9, 2010 at 10:47 PM UTC
Ersatz coffee, chicory and dandelion,
a dream of self sufficiency
the town has regained its prominence
reverting to old style timber
chevaux de bois,
a smithy as new
as time unfolding,
the spaces between buildings
allowing the sun to divine down
sentimentality decked on back- stools,
speckled sepia blossoming
a petite fleur coronation crown
becomes renewed strangers.
Dec 18, 2012
Dec 18, 2012 at 4:30 PM UTC
Ginger hit a great old flint
Split in two his *****
Took it to the smithy
Had it back inside a day
In the twenty acres
Kenny bust the plough
Let the smithy have a look
He'll fix it up somehow
Big old mare she cast a shoe
Better do all four
Hinge has broken on the gate
Latch needs mending on the door
Show him what needs fixing
He can sort it out
Heat it up in the fire
Give it a good old clout
The smithy's long been dead of course
The forge has long been closed
Just the house name on a slate
To tell of days of old
Jul 25, 2013
Jul 25, 2013 at 4:02 PM UTC
Uncle Eoin walks his fields
At odd times day and night;
When I visit he's asleep,
But not his cows and sheep.
The cows low blithely,
The lambs bah lightly,
There's no cause for alarm.
He's adding on the years,
And since my Granny died,
Eoin lives on his own,
Childless and untied.
Eoin tries to maintain health
With little money
But awash in wealth.
He doesn't worry
As we do,
Being mortgage free,
Debt-free too.
He always knows
Where to eat,
His white-washed house
Still burns peat.
The stone wall fields
Mark creation's expansion,
From first to last dimension.
He rises when I call
From outside the house:
Time has little meaning,
No matter what the season.
He calls down,
Who's there?
Francie! I yell back.
You'd think my accent,
My singular name
Would tell him it was me,
So I'm surprised
When Eoin replies,
Francie who?
To me.
He rumples down
To the blue front door
That doesn't quite
Reach the floor.
Rot has eaten much.
It swings quite well,
Considering,
It's balancing on one hinge.
Eoin wears similar clothes
I saw him wearing
Years ago.
He has a robust crop
Of hair,
As thick as smithy steel,
And snow-white
And grizzly fair.
He dips his ***
Into a pail of water,
Boils it with
The tea bag in,
And stirs it with
His finger.
The mug he offers
Needs a sledge and chisel
To chip at stains
Thick as Irish thistle.
I accept resigned,
Knowing Jameson
Comes with time.
Eoin is himself again,
After tea and toast
And insulin.
He carpets his rough floor
With red-dotted slips of paper,
Used checking his blood sugar.
They're the only color
In a room,
Black with soot,
Still dark at noon.
His sitting room is 12 X 10
With an antique cooker
Not lit since when;
A string of socks above the stove,
Hard from drying, yet never moved.
A propane burner against
An outside wall
Provides some warmth in winters;
But missing window panes
Defeat the warming currents.
My stay never last too long,
An hour, seldom two,
But Eoin never leaves my thoughts
Across the miles of blue.
Don't sympathize with Eoin,
He's turning ninety-two.
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 12:36 PM UTC
The Forge
by Michael R. Burch
To at last be indestructible, a poem
must first glow, almost flammable, upon
a thing inert, as gray, as dull as stone,
then bend this way and that, and slowly cool
at arm’s-length, something irreducible
drawn out with caution, toughened in a pool
of water so contrary just a hiss
escapes it—water instantly a mist.
It writhes, a thing of senseless shapelessness ...
And then the driven hammer falls and falls.
The horses ***** their ears in nearby stalls.
A soldier on his cot leans back and smiles.
A sound of ancient import, with the ring
of honest labor, sings of fashioning.
Published by The Chariton Review, The Eclectic Muse, Trinacria, Poetry Life & Times, and Famous Poets and Poems
NOTE: This is a sonnet about forging sonnets. The gray "anvil" is the human brain. The fiery "glow" is the poetic imagination. The cooling and shaping are the process of revision. The hammer is the poet's pen, producing order out of chaos. Keywords/Tags: Sonnet, poem, indestructible, irreducible, hammer, anvil, forge, labor, fashioning, shape, smithy, blacksmith, ironworker, sword, pen
Mar 16, 2020
Mar 16, 2020 at 10:51 PM UTC
As ambiguous as the title may seem, it dives into the vastness of human nature, it explores a sensitivity that most neglect, and it leaves you breathless with each and every single word.
At first glance, this book caught my eye due to it's boring cover and unfascinating title. But then I read it's synopsis and I was simply blown away by the stream of consciousness - how she took me from one place to another, how she gave me air and then drowned me underwater, how she sat on the edge of the moon with me and how the moon cut us with each swing between dreams and reality, how she showed me women of the Victorian era wearing ****** little skirts and how the whole street smelled like a smithy - like raw metals and earth, how she took me to the Hastings's backyard and made me an accessory to Alison Dilaurentis's ****** - I was buried alive!... and how she brought me back to the modern bookstore with dusty bookshelves and people walking past me like I did't even exist, like I didn't even belong here, and this wasn't even me...
Ah! How she made me want more...!
May 28, 2016
May 28, 2016 at 12:41 PM UTC
All my poems are copywrighted!
Not a typo,
I am the cobbler,
The leather restorer,
The itinerant knife sharpener,
The wandering spice seller who knocks on your door.
My wares, my tools are my factory,
Where I fix what ever sorrow
You bring me in need of repair.
I am a smithy,
I am a wright,
So I am legally obligated to inform you:
Every word I wright, ever stanza healed,
Every fix-it-upper restored,
Has been authored by you,
All I did was
Copy it wright down
And returned almost as good as before*
but modified, in poetic form.
So when I warn,
All my poems are copywrighted,
My meaning simple, words crystal,
They belong to us, but mostly to you
Who are reading these words,
and were created to be shared,
writ in disappearing ink to vanish
if you don't pass them on!
****
8:30 am
June 9th, 2013
Steal This Poem, N.Y. 10000
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 8:44 AM UTC
[Dun-dun, dun-dit] [Dun-dun-dun-dun-dun]
[Dun-dun, dun-dit] [Dun-dun-dun-dun-dun]
[Dun-dun, dun-dit] [Dun-dun-dun-dun-dun]
[Dun-dun, dun-dit] [Dun-dun-dun-dun-dun]
[Russia ready!] U.S., England to;
Start the final chapter!
[In control!] Ready, launch, command-cool;
What are nations after?
[Everybody!] Thinks that they should rule;
Here comes nuclear disaster.
[We were walking!] On-the-way to our school;
Dwelling on the matter…
[Great White Flash!] Thunder, wind …and screams too;
Crescendo horror clapter!
[Engage in War!] For, three days they all do;
Such greedy little Satyrs…
In control, ready, launch, command-cool;
Countries run by b_stards!
Everybody fighting for their rule;
In a worldwide nuclear disaster,
[The Holy Tome!] Religion, cultural, pride, fools;
The end is coming faster!
[Everybody!] Thinks that they should rule;
And they serve a holy master!
[Russia’s honor!] America, Europe, England too;
Apocalyptic chapter!
[In control!] Ready, launch, command-cool;
Hear whooshing wings and laughter!
[Crafty-Smithy!] He’s walking among you;
You’re descending down his ladder!
Everybody’s fighting for his rule in the final chapter!
In control, ready, launch, command-cool;
Countries run by b_stards!
Everybody fighting for their rule;
In a worldwide nuclear disaster,
Everybody’s fighting for his rule in this final chapter!
In control, ready, launch, command-cool;
Countries run by actors!
Everybody fighting for their rule;
Who do you call your master?
In control, ready, launch, command-cool;
Countries run by b_stards!
Everybody fighting for their rule;
In a worldwide nuclear disaster,
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 4:02 PM UTC