"traders" poems
The walls screamed poetry disease & ***
an inner whine like a mad machine -
dropped in a
cave of roaches
or rodents
The Computer
faces of the men
The wall collage
reading matter
The Traders (dealers)
~~~
I am a guide to the labyrinth
Come & see me
in the green hotel
Rm. 32
I will be there after 9:30 p.m.
I will show you the girl of the ghetto
I will show you the burning well
I will show you strange people
haunted, beast-like, on the
verge of evolution
-Fear The Lords who are
secret among us
~~~
Leaving the phone-booth, I was
Struck by a whiff of
the weird.
Insane old country woman
come to nag the haunts
of town
Hairy legs w/open sores.
From what swamp or under-rock
did you crawl to remind
us what we choose
to leave
13.8k
Our thoughts of doubts are traders
for making us think we cant retain and obtain what we want
leaving us in fear..
We question to attempt and even try.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 9:14 PM UTC
When any ugly war breaks out , then A lot of pretty innocent people Will be lost as an ugly outcome ... Wars' traders don't care About human lives Simply because they are greedy and Coward at the same time ... A lot of graves are dug for those Get perished anytime ... Peace is The pretty alternative to any ugly war ... Ugly wars go on endlessly ... _______________________________________________________________
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 3:15 PM UTC
I wake to the news of another lynching
As our boys scream Bleed Blue
And over the border, the Green Girls rejoice
And somewhere in Jharkhand
Two families mourn the death of their men
Cattle traders? Terrorists? Muslim?
With cloth stuffed in their throats
And arms tied behind
Hatred showing in the mob mentality
Another dark blot on our secular fabric
And I watch a short film, India, India
Of a young boy on Tuesday selling ganeshas at a temple
Another image of the same boy on a Friday
Selling taweez and chanting Ya Ali
Outside Mumbai’s Haji Ali
And on Sunday, the same boy singing the praises
of the Lord outside a church, selling amulets
And I smile
This is the India I love, the different faiths
The acceptance, the co-existence
As the morning drones on, I watch and participate
In the endless debates on Facebook and Twitter
Of people posing, taking sides, sounding pedantic
While they sit comfortably in their homes
Sipping ginger tea made by an underage maid
While their Labrador retriever is taken for a walk
By their Nepali driver and the Muslim cook smokes a bidi
In the garden with the Bihari maali where their son plays
But what will happen to the sons of the lynched cattle traders?
What will happen to the brothers of the women *****
What will happen to the mothers of the sons killed?
What will happen to the fathers of the unborn children
Killed for their mistake of being a girl child?
Is this the India we want to grow up in?
Is this the India we want to have children in?
Is this the India we want to grow old in?
Wake up, my country, it is still dawn
The road is long and far and we have miles to walk
Towards peace and freedom and love
Towards acceptance and equality and oneness
Get off that sofa and make a difference
Participate, vote, empower, create, enable
It’s up to you whether our country goes this way or that
So, wake up, my country, it is still dawn
Wake up, my country, it is still dawn
Mar 20, 2016
Mar 20, 2016 at 7:57 AM UTC
It wasnt long before the baluster flapped somewhere in the distance and Icarus knew how old he had been on the day of his birth. For whatever reason, the snow capped cappuccinos he had willfully destroyed in a heated debate on fiscal policy had him beginning again. Why was there always a beginning where there was an end? Fur traders used to circumnavigate the Hudson's Bay of his humanity when he was young, sharing drinks and fire water whiskey like it was all an H2O ready for the soul search. Sadly, many ended up in Hitlers concentration camps weeks after the **** invasion of Poland, about a month or so before the fall of the Roman Empire. Beginning with a last breath, Icarus strode off the plank with a new-found confidence unnatural in his niceties of long past. It was as if 1 minute and 35 seconds was enough to dish a clamouring populace onto the dinner table before the fat step-father gleefully orders
everyone to 'dig in, everyone!'
Cancelling everyone's appointment with Dr. Pardon meant the gaining of a key participatory certificate in El Dorado, and the gold lingering in dusty sun-beams was sifted for the taking. Some got rich, the rest got miserable. The rest used to imagine the gold, staring at ivory towers and lottery tickets, apple cores lording over old public servant applications near the city hall drain pipes as the modern world collapsed into a flash-mob image of Ronald Reagan.
Icarus was a sliver of duskish light flittering a top distant windowsills, all cupped in an intentional light because happiness was as possible as sadness. Not that considering either would make you either.
Icarus slept as his wings incinerated at the first glimpse of the solar system. He now believed every single proverb the old ***** slumbers had whispered their children as they woke to find themselves adults.
In the beginning he found the beginning beginning again. It made him feel however you wish. Both were just as possible. Both were just as much a jazz configuration as a smooth and easy guitar rift.
Ahha!
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 5:31 PM UTC
We see so much inequality in our world
And its only been enhanced
And put under a microscope.
Because while the people are suffering,
The bankers,
The CEO's
The politicians,
And the capitals;
They're all getting richer.
I don't believe in bailouts for
Corporate CEO's,
For stock market traders,
Or for banks.
What I do believe in is bailouts for
The poor,
For the students
For the workers.
I most certainly do
Believe in justice.
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 12:36 AM UTC
The rivers channel rain
The way I channel pain
I begin to see the futility
In denying pain's utility
Pain takes on a ****** nature
And becomes my intellectual savior
I shatter the mirror
And swallow the shards
The pain becomes clearer
So my ******* get hard
Glass fills my lungs
They're profusely bleeding
From words that stung
Being my daily greeting
***** shoots out from my gun
When I cut myself for fun
My hose starts spewing
Once vultures start chewing
It's the only way I can cope
When it's pain that gropes
I live in a world that mixes *** and violence
I live in a world that mixes *** and silence
Where the painkillers
Become the pain creators
And our life's filler
Is being pain traders
A bull has charged through my library for a decade
At this point every bovine movement cuts like a blade
He creates pain that lasts
When every day becomes my past
I had a dream
A sorcerer controlled my body
But he only wanted pieces of me
Bones started snapping out of my skin
Blood spurting everywhere
I awoke to ***** down there
I guess life isn't always fair
When I dream to avoid stares
The real pain comes when I care
When the privileged boycott
The impoverished boy's cot
He learns to ********** in the streets
And gains an appreciation for feet
Feet that trample
The pain is ample
When people powerfully push him away
So he decides to go against the grain
But there's no peace to be attained
And all he's left with is pain
Oct 20, 2017
Oct 20, 2017 at 4:45 PM UTC
tire siine meñ dam hai dil nahīñ hai
tirā dam garmi-e-mahfil nahīñ hai
Ambition rests within your chest but not a heart
Your wheedling, warmth of assembly is not nor its art
guzar jā aql se aage ki ye nuur
charāġh-e-rāh hai manzil nahīñ hai!
Go beyond paths of reason in quest of light
Lamp of the way it is but not a destination
ḳhirad ke paas ḳhabar ke sivā kuchh aur nahīñ
tirā ilaaj nazar ke sivā kuchh aur nahīñ
Intellect has news and nothing more
A divine glance is your cure and nothing more
har ik maqām se aage maqām hai terā
hayāt zauq-e-safar ke sivā kuchh aur nahīñ
Beyond all ranks is your prestige
Life is a delightful journey and nothing more
ragoñ meñ gardish-e-ḳhūñ hai agar to kyā hāsil
hayāt soz-e-jigar ke sivā kuchh aur nahīñ
If veins have flowing blood, then what is the reward?
An existence with a burning heart and nothing more
jise kasād samajhte haiñ tājirān-e-farañg
vo shai mata-e-hunar ke sivā kuchh aur nahīñ
What traders of the West consider as synthetic?
These are entities of flawless craft and nothing more
urūs-e-lāla munāsib nahīñ hai mujh se hijāb
ki maiñ nasīm-e-sahar ke sivā kuchh aur nahīñ
Bride like a radiant tulip, why modesty from me?
Morning breeze I am and nothing more
baḌā karīm hai 'iqbāl'-e-be-navā lekin
atā-e-shola sharar ke sivā kuchh aur nahīñ
Very gracious is voiceless Iqbal and yet
A gifted flame with sparks of fire and nothing more
✒ Translated by ℐamil Hussain
Words of Muhammad Iqbal
Apr 6, 2022
Apr 6, 2022 at 7:17 PM UTC
the commander in chief
has a propensity
to use all kinds
of weaponry
his Nobel Peace Prize
is looking rather tainted
as he is a man
who so likes war pictures to be painted
he's stated he'll make a limited strike
on Syrian soil
but why would a so called man of peace
need to become embroiled
is he propping the Military Industrial Complex up
those poor arms traders who require billions
for their impoverished cups
he might yet be making a miscalculation
as to where his fires a missile
for it may be greeted
with not such a friendly smile
the Middle East is a place
where some moderation is sorely needed
there are others who have a divergent view
to the commander in chief
they may take it upon themselves
to act in a certain way
which shall lead to some
very grey days
an explosive situation
is on the horizon
and the ramifications
are too dire
to contemplate
may the commander in chief
not press to the brink
for it may mean
peace on the planet is bound to sink
he must take a level headed approach
to any military activity
as it will mean
that harmonic relations
are in a state of permanent injury
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 1:50 AM UTC
Sweet lips encrusted in sugar from the hot doughnuts at the steam fair.
Baked in the dusty sunshine of an August afternoon in North London.
I would roam these streets from childhood into adulthood,
Drinking £2,50 wine at bus stops only to get thrown out of the pub for illusionary bathroom shots
Our real crime? Being too young.
Since then, i have drunk Spanish manzanilla in an old tobacco store room
Transformed into a house where wafts of old book smell mingling with the scent of baked terra cotta and lemon trees sweeps down dark corridors revealing hidden gems of traveled souls.
Where there are streets that belong to Phoenician women , Arab traders , Christian crusaders and now the Spanish folk
All these names we go by , yet still human we stand
Up on roof tops, smoking sneaky roll ups to the elegance of storks
Building nests on church domes and castle walls
Monuments to remind the future
Graffiti on the natural landscape , the ruins read " we waz ere"
From shores of the Atlantic to shores of the Atlantic
Brooklyn rises
The night bus to eat pizza alarmed me
How were the buses so different ?
London's told you where you were
New York's Made you suss it out for yourself
In the company of a Father i hardly knew and the Mother of my new sibling
Child ,
Who will you become ?
Shaped by the contrast of your parents skin , your curled hair yet to emerge from fresh formed follicles
Rest easy ,
This world Ain't so harsh
I found God at the bottom of a bowl of noodles
Simply sitting there , lazing about as i licked my lips of the residual chillies and sugar
I deal in the order of paradoxes
Born by the sea only to grow up in the 'so called' luxury of the cities jungle
Although, resting now in the moon soaked mountain air ,
no city can compare, to the fragrance of flowers that bloom and scent only for those who brave the night
I used to be afraid of the dark ,
Now i make love with it.
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 3:26 PM UTC
Happy New Year to all who create beauty with words and moments of hope. Thank you for sharing and new roads with a thin pen.
The Girl with the Cherries
The girl
who used to open
the markets
and lock the day.
The girl with the cherries
is flying away…
And they soared
like rainbows.
The traders’ faces
stretched.
The passers by
sank their hearts.
And somebody
smiled,
gathered the pastels
and went on.
The original:
Момичето с черешите
Момичето,
което отключваше
пазарите
и заключваше деня.
Момичето с черешите
полита ...
И те се вдигнаха
като дъги.
Лицата на търговците
се удължиха.
Минаващите
спряха си сърцето.
А някой
се усмихна,
прибра пастелите
и продължи.
Преводач Български-английски: Савова Vessislava
rarebird
© bogpan - всички права запазени
Dec 30, 2010
Dec 30, 2010 at 9:34 PM UTC
The so called Traders:
Ignited us with the fire of 'Divide and rule'
In those days...
Leaving the blood shed riots at the borders till date!
The selfish leaders using the same
Stirred the minds of innocent,
With the notion 'Pratyeka Telangana'
Made victims of present Chaos!
Is not this rat race for position?
If not, pay tribute to Constitution;
Upholding Unity in Diversity!
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 2:19 PM UTC
More economic problems
On the way
As I read in this article today
Here it is
You can read it too
I'm no financial expert
But world economies
Seem *******
Lol
“I think it’s pretty obvious that the top is in,” the Reagan administration’s OMB director said Thursday on CNBC’s “Futures Now.” The S&P; 500 has traded in a historically narrow range for the better part of 2015, having moved just 1 percent higher year to date. “It’s just waiting for the knee-jerk bulls, robo traders and dip buyers to finally capitulate.”
Stockman, whose past claims have yet to come to fruition, still believes that the excessive monetary policy from central banks around the world has created a “debt supernova,” and all the signs point to “the end of the central bank enabled bubble,” which could cause a worldwide recession.
“The larger picture has nothing to do with the jobs report [Friday] or even the September decision by the Fed,” said Stockman. “It has to do with the the fact that the world economy, including the U.S., is heading into what is clearly going to be an epochal deflation to the likes of what we have never experienced in modern time.”
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 8:59 PM UTC
Straight lines bound the edges,
while it became necessary to spend
the anchor of time lost in the twisting
patterns slowly darkening to supply
the molecules which provided scenery.
The character was divided
between a wolf and the hiker towering
at the pinnacle of the hill to gaze above
the head of the beast across to the vista
of the trail. Roses bloomed, and the ink
was done, to dry while color trickled
in a world comprised through streams
of shivering light reflected from
the mountain, a flower raised by
the frivolous event of cataclysmic times;
the hatchet carved its cliffs to make
a face of empty granite and the soul of
the rock. The delay created a great offer,
considered by erosion, but the hesitation
defied the smoothing influence of climates
and their ages. The rise killed the
enthusiasms of the hiking spirit,
reconstituting the problem, and
the messenger of hilarity was never less
welcome than when enthusiastic about the
confusion of lost victims. Always a few
of these were
in the scenes along the shimmering trails
with their names that changed at inconvenient
turning points until travelers were anxious
to go through the door into the chalet with its
green carpet of moss. The discount welcomed
them, inside, yet there was no great pile
of money and nothing was purchased. Instead,
after the warmth set in, showing determination,
the man with the pack returned to life on
the wild edge of the land. After a command to
the sharp creature that had been pacified by the
impressive displays of civilization, the walker
began to trek, and the wandering dog felt self
respect, the beginning of membership. So, they
belonged to the range, and the traders had plans
to provision them by means of a system of values
arrived to demonstrate available necessities and
equities conceived in the course of bargaining.
This general aspiration was accompanied by the
taciturn response thought to be more pleasant
than the argument and ill will. Prosperity had
been created by serving fate and nature rather
than by transferring property to a singular pit.
The result was an expectation of good deals and
reliable assistance.
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 6:37 PM UTC
Saintly cassock,
Glittering altar
Ornamental pulpit.
Driving the congregants
in a paroxysm of fib,
Gullibility enshrines adherents
hearts.
Do you know the Messiah more
than the apostles ?
Thou traders in the temple.
Parrotic tongues set out
commands
Loquacious sweet-coated mouths
misdirects faithfuls.
But the uncreated Creator who
creates creatures watches
Dreadful silence astonishingly
permeates the entireness
of the universe.
Do you preach love?
Do you follow peace with all?
Ye robbers in the temple.
Command darkness to produce
light.
But you turned moonlight into
tale.
Can you display Davidic dance
steps on the road?
Profanity of sanctuary with
false homiletics.
Merchants of dross in tabernacle
Speak.
Let us hear you.
Preach
To the congregants.
Righteousness afar from the
apron of faith.
Charity locked up in the
tunic of hope.
Sanctity of holiness sprinkled
into the tributary of sin.
Commanding the stars to turn
to sun,
Captains of night in light.
Ye robbers in the sanctuary.
Pastoral advertisers of chattels
in the tabernacle,
Merchandising gold dross in
sermonic hymns.
Sugar-coated doctrine wept in
the tomb of Lazarus.
Prompting Him to weep again?
Ye merchants in synagogue.
Disentangle faithfuls from the
webs of worriment.
Dislodge congregants out of the
shackles of sin.
Deliver ignoramus from the
isle of incendiary.
Let the sifter of strength
separate out afflictions from
feebleminded faithfuls.
Ye robbers in the temple
You love prayers more than God
But who answers prayers?
Dec 16, 2018
Dec 16, 2018 at 3:45 AM UTC
*They’re almost gone now a vanishing tribe
Peddlers of fresh sweets honeys from hive
Sellers of fish heads such sundries on head
Toys and bangles and blankets for bed.
Don’t see them around those struggling men
Making the choice of voice trudging the lane
Hoping to sell one piece in dream of gain
Faceless wind ringer in sun’s bite and rain.
Gone are those plaintive cries on summer noon
Raising road’s dust on trail singing the tune
Traders of trinkets girls’ ribbon hairpin
Yoyo and plastic top with endless spin.
Why the times ruined them made them a flop
Sellers travelers with head-full of shop
Sending their song of hope past locked in door
None could now fill that space nothing anymore.*
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 7:05 AM UTC
Market square died down this afternoon,
the day of trading over and over all too soon;
and the now the trolleys have been left out,
lights left on waiting for those customers to come again.
*They'll hurry into their jumpers the traders and customers of tomorrow,
weather'll kick up and run up the coast in a rainy fuss.*
Temporary clad walls that are there all year round
are dressed up from the ground every day, tied at the ear
of the frames that hang over corridor of cobbles,
scuffed with the muck from Armani plimsolls
and the heels of this week's Alexander McQueens.
*When the rain comes trading will cease and
they'll flick out their notepads to calculate this month's lease.*
Nov 20, 2013
Nov 20, 2013 at 8:38 AM UTC
Love the little worm
Just as unbecoming
Look in the mirror.
My words are ugly
My body is ugly
and selfish actions.
Why people
It was the people.
In a parallel universe.
a stray hair,
Ugly wars go on endlessly …
And from that, ugliness was born
Get perished anytime …
Ugly
Simply because they are greedy and
Love the little spider
But it’s often the people
***** looks,
...I told you I was
We really are living
They become even more jumbled than they were before.
A lot of graves are dug for those
My breaths are ugly
But when words go to leave my head
A crooked tooth,
Love the little pig
hateful words
an extra pound?
its thin silken web
I am ugly
My words on a page
small zit,
Mistakes
For you
It was only until now that
A lot of pretty innocent people
My face is ugly
Are ugly ink blots,
It's my greatest fear
Beautifully Ugly
An ugly war goes on
Why cant I speak beautifully?
My actions are ugly
What's Ugly?
With all its self conscious nature
I wish I could say
Wars' traders don't care
My soul is ugly
Ugly
Offers such beauty
beautiful is ugly.
That make it ugly.
To find me ugly too
Who naturally spins
What's ugly?
When any ugly war breaks out , then
My thoughts are ugly
Will be lost as an ugly outcome …
When I was a kid I
were ugly is beautiful
This world we live in
Who is so happy
Coward at the same time …
Ugly
My mind is ugly
just to play in the mud
Makeup will only go so far to hide an ugly heart.
I understand.
Ugly VS Beautiful
About human lives
And terrible.
Just what I mean
They would call it boring,
It wasn’t the place,
Peace is The pretty alternative to any ugly war …
I am ugly
And ugly
We live in a world
Would beg to leave this place.
Didn’t understand
Love Ugly
Once, someone was called beautiful
No, I will tell you what's ugly.
As the scars on my wrist.
and
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 5:40 AM UTC
Sauntering casually,
jostled by shoppers,
teatime bargain hunters;
curses of common folk
ringing in my ears,
out of tune with
the cries of the traders.
Two for one here!
I say, two for one here!
Embattled in the
throng of a slow
moving crowd, shoulders
heaving, swaying to an
inaudible beat. Tired
faces marking time,
quelling inner frustration.
Get a move on!
Please, just get a move on.
Now it’s raining,
incessant needles
prickle my face.
Suspended water droplets
dangle from striped
awnings, reflecting
trapped, busy, images.
Caught in a moment.
Spattered, in a moment.
Then I see her,
the fruit-stall girl,
her words and gestures
touch me like music
rippling over my skin.
Secret caressing fingers,
bringing me to life.
She doesn’t see me.
No: she doesn’t ever see me.
I’m almost mesmerised,
by the light catching
the white curve of
her neck. Her hair,
like spun gold, dancing
on her ruffled collar as
she serves with a smile.
Your change sir.
Don’t forget your change sir!
I turned for home,
head bowed, shoulders
stooped; no crowded bus
for me with standing
room only. A slow
solitary walk, past
dark, dripping gardens.
Her face for company, how
strange: her face, for company.
© Paul Chafer 2014
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 6:09 AM UTC
If only the Christmas lights on Oxford street
could fill a table with food to eat.
In the hungry days of shop doorways where
some sit silently
shiver violently
the lines of lights light up their nights
as if they need reminding that the
'morrow brings them nothing new.
Nothing to do but wait
as another bus draws up and
more get off to sate their appetites
among the bright lights of
Oxford Street.
Winter nights.
The soup run does not come
never will
the traders,council and the coppers
think it gives bad vibes to shoppers,
still it would be nice to think
that homeless people get a drink of
something hot.
Down Trafalgar Square there's somewhere where
they can spend some time
have a meal ,a shower and a crypt
seems fine if a little odd
for the poor sod
who's only got what he's given.
A new shirt and trews
he's not from Scotland
but beggars do not choose
they accept and
sometimes painfully,
the helping hands from a charity.
It's such a sad affair that some don't care,
don't give a look and yet think nothing
of sharing pointless posts on
the pages of Facebook.
Another bus drops off a few even as some drop off the
grid
and we bid goodnight to the rights and wrongs
the Christmas songs
the happy throngs
and hide
inside
another
doorway.
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 6:25 AM UTC
Do you believe in Science Fiction?
You can have Jedi as a religion,
Led by a guru vader,
Leading the faith traders,
Jedi swords as new excaliburs,
Or are they non-sequiturs?
Yes, Jedi to seek their grail,
May the force be with you today!
Jul 30, 2016
Jul 30, 2016 at 12:24 AM UTC
Memory takes me back to long ago. I can see the deck of the slave ship I came on, smell the salt air and the hot vinegar used to clean away the escaping stench below the deck, hear the sound as male slaves exercise, as crew members play fiddle music while chains thud hard from the dancing amusement of the slaves. My home was near the River Senegal on the coast. The slave traders ships brought colered cloth, beads, *** and cowrie shells to trade for our black flesh. Father raised cattle, rice and maize. This ebony man traded muskets, gunpowder, needles and colored thread, for what he grew. On the day of our capture, we marched during the long day tied to each other, given only thin meal and warm water. Tiredness bore down on our limbs each step. Canoes came on waves toward us. Fear moved down the chained line of men. Women and children were separated. Our clothes were taken. Standing naked, mouths were opened, and muscles felt. We had to jump up and down while moving our arms. Chosen ones were branded on the skin. I screamed loudly until my voice refuse sound. The time for hearing is gone. Rapid waters filled with blood, as some are tossed into the sea, for circling sharks to dine on. The ship offers only sixteen inches to hold me, others have two and half inches if tightly packed. Bodies are in the hold, secured down by chains that are nailed. Faint cries of agony beat on my ears like drums. I try not to breath in the rancid smells of those who have soiled themselves. Air is limited. Mutiny usually takes place within the shoreline. Because when at sea chances are less to escape. Slaves who simply refuse to eat are force fed with the speculum oris which is placed in the slave's mouth, opening the jaws then food is pushed in usually rice or millet. Crew members tried wash away stench of blood from floggings, feces, ***** from between decks until this day the stench still remains. Living as a slave while your soul is dead is a living horror.
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 9:32 PM UTC
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are new "good" ***** Indian Lakes is a company, but Maria, 20, Yahoo, Google and user codes are more important than others, ******* and others are not ... ... ... ... Vash ... ... players, Marie Cookie Online, United States, Beijing, Russia, Africa, Jordan, Nigeria, username and phone number 1 ... .. .. .. .... ... ... ..... ....... ....... ..... ... .. .......... .... . .. .. .. ..... ..... ..... .. .. .. ... ... ... ... ... ... .. .. .. .. .. .. .. ...... .. ...
The keys of Cebele, United States, BGG, YouTube, February 1, 20, Yahoo, Nigeria, Russia, Africa, Jordan, Iran, Google, Yahoo, usernames and phone numbers ...... ....... ..... ..... ..... ....... ... ... ... ... ... This is not the first time for the poor: plastic, textiles, ... plastic and more. What is plastic music, the baby and the brush? Google, Mary, George, Music, South Africa, Henry Kiro College, February 1, Yahoo, Google, Mary, Nigeria, Russia, Latvia, Jordan, Google and Google ... ...... .. .. .. .. no plastic foam. First song in China. Google, Yahoo, etc., searches on Google (children) and ... or on February 1, 2008, Sunday, June, username, fifth year and No. 1. ... ... doctor .. ... .. ... ... ... ... ... ... [...]. .. [misleading error or misuse]. Documents Dyebat What a fool, dach, small, coconut and elephant, Asian, mango, sweet, sweet potato, cheese, dance, simple Mormons, nifty found, dodo, balloon, golf, jubilink, bubbles, gallop, crystallum, mushrooms, Kelts, Tarsis, Red Jumps, Soupo, Nabal, Peanut Butter or Casava.
He heard this story in the days of Moses' messenger. Path. Your teacher taught that you have the same words for children. Here are some tips to help you get the most out of the box. Thanks for the wonderful things! Thanks
for encouraging us. Fraud, theft, basketball, students, staff, streets, midnight hair. - 321.6 Kicks Sparkling - BBC TV, Best Director. Neir, two minors, mild lactose intolerance, 1.2 million visits: Depression of muscular transmission Up to four extremes, Jazz traders, ***** Press and 10 minutes of salary: 882.1kg Appear - 267.9 kg With their NEWS - Horrible problems, ****** and consequences; 10 minutes of Abuse 481.8 FU See K - It is not the first music in Greenland or in India.
Nov 9, 2018
Nov 9, 2018 at 11:02 PM UTC