"tunics" poems
Trees in dark tunics
leaves reflect the pale moonlight.
The silver fur of the moon
extended claws gripping the dark
veins are stretched to a chilled red wine.
Its taste tingles on the tip of my tongue
to lick the white stains of the ambushed sky
to pluck the emblems with my teeth
and howl silently with the moon
nudging the dark space to a blushing white.
©Malintha Perera 2015
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 12:59 PM UTC
sappho greets her as she
would a reflection:
hand against hand, staring into
her eyes. silence dancing
around them as a long-lost love-
r.
enheduanna sighs at the contact
and the quiet shifts as
her fingers close:
as there is no need for language
when her
inanna will grant them
a holy diadem.
-----
eternity reeks
of nights out on the lawn
daisies growing with the weeds
pillowing beneath the two
dwindling women -
hands clasped tightly,
their eyes closed.
...lapis blooming
within the petals
of the undergrowth...
gods slumber amongst
worthy poets occluding,
heart-soothing each
other without words
or sonnets
or divination.
sappho dared to
look out from
heavy-lidded
lethargy,
for she was
yearning:
at dawn
...her honeyvoiced,
mythweaving
enheduanna:
a sweet-shelter
of temptation
and goddesses
who wage
tender war and
drink from pools
of sun...
at dawn
the ancient
divine
poet
gazes
again
and sappho
forgets she
too is nearly
as old
for her lover wears
an invisible golden-
crowned circlet
of springtime
and illuminated
lands.
but she can hardly think
anymore, when
the songsmith of
glory and prayer
is kissing her.
laying in the basin
of heaven and skies
she pours restless
eternity down
her throat.
----
lapis melts
to pink clovers
of fowlerite
no mortals notice
two bodies blending
between poems
rustling tunics
maidens casting
away their
fruitful
sobriety.
----
poet
dreams
a woman
of verse.
hardly expecting
shallow-breathed
kisses of burning
solstice and
unrequited
love.
Feb 16, 2022
Feb 16, 2022 at 12:18 AM UTC
Black cabs and ab-dabs.
Dashing through London streets,
High heels and crippled feet.
Back street bars,
wealthy sheiks,
ever running,
Hide and seek.
Black panther's in lippy,
Colourful hippies.
Turbans and tunics,
Kiddies in cotton, with mud on their bottoms.
Big Whigs and stiff prigs.
Market stalls and rubber *****
Undergrounds and all around.
City beats, it's hopping on.
On and off off of buses and train.
London love life, kicking pain.
Picks up his drink and thinks like a fish.
A couple more beers, three seconds of fun.
Slipped into his glass.
Glass one, two three,
Freedom four.
Needs more.
(c) LIVVI
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 5:25 AM UTC
Guarded within the old red wall's embrace,
Marshalled like soldiers in gay company,
The tulips stand arrayed. Here infantry
Wheels out into the sunlight. What bold grace
Sets off their tunics, white with crimson lace!
Here are platoons of gold-frocked cavalry,
With scarlet sabres tossing in the eye
Of purple batteries, every gun in place.
Forward they come, with flaunting colours spread,
With torches burning, stepping out in time
To some quick, unheard march. Our ears are dead,
We cannot catch the tune. In pantomime
Parades that army. With our utmost powers
We hear the wind stream through a bed of flowers.
4.7k
at 9, my father took me to confess.
i crossed myself and stepped into
the closet-like space.
"bless me, father, for I have sinned."
at 10, my mother took me to church.
baptist. southern. the pastor spit venom from his pulpit.
they taught me to fear god
and live my life through christ.
at 15, my friend took me to her synagogue.
i sat with her family as her sister
recited text from the torah.
we celebrated her bat mitzvah. held her high on a chair.
at 17, my best friend took me to mosque.
we washed our feet and dressed in tunics
and prayed towards mecca
and recited words from the koran. we were placed behind the men.
the same pattern was played,
over and over again.
swear to whatever god owned
that shrine
that you would give your life for him.
and make no mistake, because by divine reason, it is a him.
and always,
always,
always,
get down on your knees.
and pray.
i remember thinking every ********* time
that prostitutes and disciples
seemed awfully alike.
and then i thought,
"they're probably right about god being male."
Jan 23, 2011
Jan 23, 2011 at 6:58 PM UTC
Silent and alone, I flow through shops with so many
windows, but I see nothing except the faces around me, the ones
who might believe I'm more gossamer than the shawls and tunics
meant to disguise us all as ethereal hippies in the New Age.
Silent and alone, I stand by the fountain, waiting
for something to break the sleepiness of solitude when
two men spot me: mouths parted, eyes appraising, judging, appreciating my physical worth. Rooted in place, I smile.
Only when they look at me do I have purpose.
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 4:16 PM UTC
You leave the apostrophes to someone else, I can't even make it in to 'im', instead I'm writing papers about the Oneida and Jonestown murders.
The television is on, the air purifier
is dying. I can hear the ***** fan belt of my laptop on the fritz or the fizzy bubbles of
The Cranberry Redbull that I'm trying.
I could be a great sport. Ya know, anything you want.
Jump to.
Make the Miso soup, clear off the kitchen table, buy brand new markers with no recent pictures drawn into their nibs.
Throw in comfy pants. I don't know what else I have to offer, a clean bath? Some books? A magazine?
The weather is exciting, we could call get Pneumonia or at least share a drink and catch Hep-C,
Put our children together to catch the gift of Shingles. A motorcycle toy for my Uritis it is better. The roses from the sweater paired with leather, leggings, and a kick *** song. Inside we can talk about his hair cut and going to California. I'm intimidated by you moreover when you tell me you can eat airplanes with only your bare hands. And even if I'm a bore, I still have Streptococcus. So seal and deliver. My cerulean goddess, with the best, thank thank you for the nightmare fever you stole from the words I wrote. And at the end of your book you don't have to cop out and fall along a crippled sky. With crippled words, verbs, and losers. Score cards of different colors. Tunics proud as the walk to the river we voted from Baptism to demon-voter. Stand and deliver, flora and fauna that threatens to eat our home.
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 3:11 AM UTC
The dust plate plays havoc
its enough to unsound the light,
around the mountain top again.
Journeying south to balm the disappointment,
asked why and further marching down
the parade sees no end,
just a murmur.
A sigh left unsaid,
again stated it sounds different
as we echo to the Northern valleys,
where icicles lampoon our
uncovered heads.
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 1:20 PM UTC
in the manufactured waves of chlorine
my feet stand on concrete shores
and tiles grappled with maritime life
of dead leaves that have crept its way
in an ecosystem of unnatural residents
with sunken treasures buried beneath
the heavy blankets of swimmers' feet
a child's lost pair of goggles gleams
in the crevices of the ceramic seabed
sunbeams bounce off the plastic
an underwater mirage for the pool's
regular inhabitants armed in spandex
these are the common sights
of The Public Pool
and it's in the rare quiet moments
of carefully constructed serenity
when you are the sole ruler of
your concrete public pool kingdom
when your camp has been pillaged
by a thousand 5 year olds garbed
in their best hot pink speedo suits
and equipped with the best water guns
maintaining their positions like
a modern Praetorian legion swathed
in modern day mass-produced tunics
huddled in formation with limbs afloat
assembled and hungry to conduct
a carefully constructed battle of dominance
when the water surrounding you
suddenly feels too warm
it's too warm for it to be the chlorine
and you look up to see their leader –
their leader in the speedo silicone swim cap
is flushed as red as her speedo suit: a sight
against the synthetic cerulean landscape
that you realize:
you own nothing in this world
even the public pool gets invaded
even the public pool gets ****** in
so you might as well enjoy shallow ends
and every little joy life has to offer
the universe will **** itself eventually
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 4:28 PM UTC
In Neverland - never to grow old
never to marry that sweetheart
never to have children and grandchildren
nor watch hair thin and grey.
Full of derring-do - more dash than discipline
lanky and loose-limbed they swank and saunter
not like soldiers at all
no doff the cap humility
to the old rules and distant monarchies.
From a newly stolen world
hardly secured or steady with itself
lodged on the edge of a vast continent
clinging to a rim of turquoise blue.
Now cramped
in the pock-holed sores of ancient lands
richly bone-dusted from time to time.
Waiting for the fight to end
to go ‘back home’ ‘over there’
to farms and factories; schools and stations.
Still there - left behind
in the archipelago of cemeteries
as far as Fromelles, Pozieres,
to Bullencourt and Paschendaele
in fields of beetroot and corn,
fields bleeding red with poppies
beside the Menin Road at Ypres
in bluebelled woods of Verdun
in the silt of the Somme
on the plains of Flanders
in the victory graves at Amiens
Monash’s boys - the lost boys
cried for their mothers
begged for water
screamed to die
hung like khaki bundles on the wire.
Commanded by Field Marshalls
who never went to the fields,
who played the numbers game
in a war of bluff and bluster,
who never touched the dirt and slime,
nor waded through the ****** slush
of broken men and boys,
never waist-deep in mud and sinking,
wounded and drowning in that shambles of a war
Wearing dead men’s boots
and shrapnel-holed helmets
tunics and leggings splattered and rotting
with dead men’s blood and brains
Some haunted boys came home
knapsacks full of secret pictures,
old rusty tins crammed with suffering
breast pockets held their grief
wrapped in shroud-shreds.
They brought their duckboard demons
to the world of peace
Gas-choked fretful lungs still brought
the caustic fumes with every breath exhaled
and from every pore the death-sweat of decay.
But most boys were lost boys
lost forever in that no-man’s land
that Neverland of lives unlived.
© M.L.Emmett
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 12:32 PM UTC
A letter from unknown.
British Expeditionary Force, Friday December 25th 1914.
"My Dear Mater, This will be the most memorable Christmas I've ever spent or likely to spend: since about tea time yesterday I don't think theres been a shot fired on either side up to now."
"Last night turned a very clear frost moonlight night, so soon after dusk we had some decent fires going and had a few carols and songs. The Germans commenced by placing lights all along the edge of their trenches and coming over to us - wishing us a Happy Christmas.
Some of our chaps went over to their lines."
"There must be something in the spirit of Christmas as to day we are all on top of our trenches running about ..."
"After breakfast we had a game of football at the back of our trenches! We've had a few Germans over to see us this morning. They also sent a party over to bury a ****** we shot in the week ... About 10.30 we had a short church parade the morning service etc. held in the trench ..."
"Just before dinner I had the pleasure of shaking hands with several Germans ... I exchanged one of my balaclavas for a hat. I've also got a button off one of their tunics. We also exchanged smokes etc. and had a decent chat."
"They say they won't fire tomorrow if we don't so I suppose we shall get a bit of a holiday - perhaps ... We can hardly believe that we've been firing at them ... it all seems so strange.
With much love from Boy."
Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 7:39 PM UTC
In Neverland - never to grow old
never to marry that sweetheart
never to have children and grandchildren
nor watch hair thin and grey.
Full of derring-do - more dash than discipline
lanky and loose-limbed they swank and saunter
not like soldiers at all
no doff the cap humility
to the old rules and distant monarchies.
From a newly stolen world
hardly secured or steady with itself
lodged on the edge of a vast continent
clinging to a rim of turquoise blue.
Now cramped
in the pock-holed sores of ancient lands
richly bone-dusted from time to time.
Waiting for the fight to end
to go ‘back home’ ‘over there’
to farms and factories; schools and stations.
Still there - left behind
in the archipelago of cemeteries
as far as Fromelles, Pozieres,
to Bullencourt and Paschendaele
in fields of beetroot and corn,
fields bleeding red with poppies
beside the Menin Road at Ypres
in bluebelled woods of Verdun
in the silt of the Somme
on the plains of Flanders
in the victory graves at Amiens
Monash’s boys - the lost boys
cried for their mothers
begged for water
screamed to die
hung like khaki bundles on the wire.
Commanded by Field Marshalls
who never went to the fields,
who played the numbers game
in a war of bluff and bluster,
who never touched the dirt and slime,
nor waded through the ****** slush
of broken men and boys,
never waist-deep in mud and sinking,
wounded and drowning in that shambles of a war
Wearing dead men’s boots
and shrapnel-holed helmets
tunics and leggings splattered and rotting
with dead men’s blood and brains
Some haunted boys came home
knapsacks full of secret pictures,
old rusty tins crammed with suffering
breast pockets held their grief
wrapped in shroud-shreds.
They brought their duckboard demons
to the world of peace
Gas-choked fretful lungs still brought
the caustic fumes with every breath exhaled
and from every pore the death-sweat of decay.
But most boys were lost boys
lost forever in that no-man’s land
that Neverland of lives unlived.
© M.L.Emmett
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 5:44 AM UTC
Be it not me to tell a fool he is a fool
Does he know he dances naked in Red square
Caked in white ochre he twirls around like in a weaving spool
Spouting delusions nonsensically, he lays his befuddled simple mind bare
As he jumps up then he spins, sways, bends, twists, then pirouette like its cool
Be it not me to say he has a stub for a tool
For many are crazed by this affliction of what's down there
Becoming tin gods, tyrants and oppressors, in a cruel merciless rule
Heaven helps the gifted, for the thimble oppressor becomes riddled with fear
Hurling anger and loathing, envy and jealousy, whilst enraptured with the mind of a ghoul
Be it not me to give credence to the antics of a fool
Plainly, we do not dance to same tune, nor have similar tunics to wear
For even in our world of plenty, many hapless lives are shut down by a little tool
Be it with wicked slander or iron sharpened or blazing fire, smallness knows little cheer
Clothed, naked or dancing in white ochre, a stub can cause insanity not taught in Medical school.
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 9:17 AM UTC
red summer sunsets and droplets on flowers
pink cotton tunics and lost things in drawers
brown girls who rule with their eyeliner wings
these are a few of my favourite things
a touch of the cheese and a taste of the lime rind
earrings that dangle with a swirl of the wind
rain and the fragrance of trees that it brings
these are a few of my favourite things
when the shoe bites
when I have mood swings
when I am feeling sad
I simply remember my favourite things
and then I don't feel
so bad
Apr 21, 2018
Apr 21, 2018 at 12:44 PM UTC
To begin with there begins a little sprinkle, only a delicate sound
just delicate, a small "titter" as it taps on your secondary passage.
This, at to begin with, you have a go at overlooking 'til it's decidedly pouring
it reestablishes and continues invigorating each living thing around.
At that point it streams down the timber of the trees with branches agile
what's more, the leaves surrender clean as, drinking heartily, they sup.
Where the beads make a sprinkle, there the drainpipe begins a ******
or, on the other hand it tickles through the rings 'til it douses into the ground.
In the canal there's a puddle, only a little center obfuscate
at that point it develops into a gusher as it sputters past the control.
This downpour tumbles towards the tar, ten times as quick and twice as far
as the tormented educators pull at both their tunics and their sleeve.
Furthermore, once more, it makes an air pocket and makes a little inconvenience
for the wetness of the water causes sobbing from the astute.
There's a flooding of the fields as the water waves and wheels
what's more, the grieving Mormons on their bicycles are crying to the skies.
While the raindrops keep running round edges and they swell down the extensions
at that point they join the happy excursion at the intersection with a run.
When they accumulate in the canal there's a sputtering, merry splutter
with a splashing and expression, they're singing as they clear out.
There's a stammer and a shake as the gusher battles a fight
with the gravity of planet as it joins the droning throng.
However, it's inclination is constant and disregards each safe
pattern of obstructions as determinedly it wends it's direction once more.
Presently it looks for the last butcher and it jumps into the water
of the sea at the passageway of the place we call the narrows.
There's a happy "hurrah" of adulating to the Ruler who has been looking
down on every one of his youngsters, named or not, who looked for his favored 'Rain'.
Oct 25, 2017
Oct 25, 2017 at 6:49 AM UTC
man and his science, exploring the vast unknown
wearing his space suit, platinum white, fishbowl over his head
Jesus and all the deities in those old paintings
clothed in tunics, holy white, gold ******* their heads
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 8:10 AM UTC
Exactly as described in the Bible text. the same critics would no doubt be claiming collusion among the apostles and thus the Bible isn't true. It was what she wouldn't say. New York have guessed that in the following decade I'd walk through the art deco doors of the Columbia Broadcasting System at Madison Avenue original headquarters. and on her way stopped in Morocco for tunics, not the Philosopher ghd factory outlet.
The permanent collection galleries are well labeled regarding the art works and the artists. I am now seeing the true meaning . of James. so remember to make sure the light is turned off when you have finished using the loupe. She asked if she could stay with me and watch my surgery. Why are we using the sentence and not the meter or line. The poetic lines in poetry are given more to incite ghd uk, For now. he knows time is of the essence. Well, I know he's just using me.
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Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 1:18 AM UTC
It’s all very good
To not be happening
To be pedestrian
In the eye of the skin
What are you giving
To the fee of propriety?
Or maybe you’re taking
No loans for your own belief
You’re not looking
If you’re already there
Standing crooked
On decadent hardware
Tapeworms and toe shoes
Comments on twitches
Raking a living
On dollar-long pitches
Sustainable notebooks
Planning uncertainty
A humble room
For an affirmed reality
You’re not looking
If you’re already there
Standing crooked
Begging for a chair
Your mind is pretty
As a cog of the city
It may lark starkly
In a house that ages a-
-Loans to live up-
-Tunics promise the sky-
Domain disappoints you
Periodic shifts,
Assured to swallow you in splendour
Nothing engineered
Is best left well-explained
Standing for a chair
Standing for a chair
Standing for a chair
Standing for a chair
Standing for a chair
Standing for a chair
Standing for a chair
Standing for a chair
Standing for a chair
Standing for a chair
Standing for a chair
Standing for a chair
Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 8:27 PM UTC
Temple tunics
On antipodal brim
Enfolding in boughs
Lochs of lagoon
No broadcasts
To ruin ourn tune
Ourn tress to clout
No shame nor doubt
Endless labyrinth
North to south
Feeding doves by hand
Grains of tan
Whilst the bairn scowl
For mimes and Lambs
Broods of technology
Tearing down filth
Governmental collapse
Every man's self
In his house!!!
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 10:33 PM UTC
The walled -in city imposed upon the reason
to stand so tall within the minds slum
People gathered in networks discussing nothing.
Even as the sea split into pellets of rain
The waters squished together to form puddles of delight
where children played with bare toeholds in the dirt.
I saw Jericho fall as trumpets went out of tune
and tunics hitched up on Roman Generals
marched with full venison bellies
slaughtering people like pigs-making bacon!
As desolate as this **** dream visions
of wasted emptiness, slowly filling at the edge
with landscaped gardens of garbage
the gates opened and Trojan Horses
unleashed terror on the people.
Prophets roamed the Western world
preaching doomsday and scimitars of radicalism
overtaking the civilised. Insanity finds
its origins in reading between the lines.
I tell you it will not happen. It never will.
Author Notes
Dare to decipher this?
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 8:13 PM UTC
We have the full complement of the requisite barriers:
Barbed wire, barren landscape, unpleasant canines,
Stark metallic towers with vaguely menacing turrets and gunsights
(Though they are remote, poorly lighted,
Perched high enough that I suspect they may be occupied
By mannequins or scarecrows),
And what cannot be attained physically
Is augmented by other means,
Breakfasts at mid-day, bits of bread in the blackest part of night,
Light as dark, dark as light.
We tell our company this and that of the news of the world:
Half–and-quarter-truths, innuendos of some plausibility,
Outright truths as well, but told with the most outrageous leers,
Put forth in a tone which suggest that such things could never be,
(I have come to appreciate Pilate’s question,
For truth is a singular thing,
Valid within the limits of one’s mind,
No more than a lower-case notion
When butting up against those of others),
And I tell myself that this is all something that needs to be done,
That perhaps there is no greater good
Than a certain regularity,a certain order of things,
But I am unsettled by the memory of an episode
Some three days past, where one of this assemblage
(I suspect the person in question was female,
But we keep our band well-shorn, and they are costumed
In rather shapeless and gray tunics
Which, given the lapse of time
And the long intervals between our own re-supply,
Look suspiciously like our own garments)
Look in my direction with what fervor she could muster,
All but barking You! You will be forgiven none of this!
And I was left perplexed by her admonition,
Which, as I began to readying myself for dinner
(Scrubbing my neck, my face, my hands,
Trying to rid myself of the damnable dust
Which is omnipresent, unavoidable, beyond eradication)
Lingered, as I could not for the life of me
Comprehend the calculus which would mark me,
A relative speck, a cog, a mere functionary,
As the one to be singled out.
Nov 1, 2017
Nov 1, 2017 at 9:22 AM UTC
green as eyes
drinking from emerald caves
the color of rusted gems are dancing in your face
i keep getting distracted by the longing in your voice
poetry keeps me hungry
poetry wakes me up
forever trusting my intuition
i seek heavy water for keeping our daughters safe
i serve muscles and nerves in a stew
the returning few are worthy of bone broth
your strength is several miles high
your fame is conveniently shy
i am arguably thine
reflect and revive
however you strive
i support you
all is said and done
now get dressed by the fire
go forth in glory and don’t forget to inspire
in between sensations
there is a pause all for you
how your hair smells
and what are you waiting for
your breath is commingling with the ocean
forever immersed in the moistness of the dawn
i am shirtless and perspiring
juicy mountains determine
our fall from heaven's grace
a gladness that i chased you
for once you were bitten
i could never be happy without you by my side
retrieve the dimples from my cheeks
dress the dog in cotton tunics
release the poison of the world
and dance with me in forgotten fields of lavender
the secrets are no longer kept
what was spoken in neglect is now there forever
i hear that one is only a disguise for another
Jun 2, 2017
Jun 2, 2017 at 1:29 PM UTC
His worth endured a date.
At the corner of the wooden low
Sat He, the decider of the day.
Himself, the Life and the Sacrament
At a wedding, an honour to give.
Adjudged a woodman’s breed
Came down to the celebrant’s call.
Acts unknown in tunics white,
He was amidst the local stones;
Health and wealth within His bones.
“O dear! The wine is finished
And the convener mustn’t hear.
His heart would lose the merry,
And the bride may bridge a breath”,
…So said His mum divine.
“My time above is kept,
Why pull a string so tight?
That angels are now on heels
To do my bidding so.
…O woman! Though my mum”.
“Tip the pots to the top,
Dip from the stream at the spot.
Taste the cup from some
And send to the chief at the top
To taste the drip from the crock”.
“Aha! The cheat is caught
That kept the best till late.
For we now drunk with waste
Have laced our thirst with liqs.
So sad our craves in kicks”.
Now, chief, with all the guests
Hails the bride in love with the groom:
Tell them dance for all is good!
But they knew not how it worked,
Save the Mum and Son divine.
May 20, 2021
May 20, 2021 at 8:40 AM UTC
The ancient ones, when warfare came to stay,
knew what to do. They combed their hair
upon the rocks. Blades grew keen and bright.
Greaves were fastened sure about their *****
Heads encased in helmets; eyes grew somber.
Return with all your shields, the women cried,
or else upon them. Battle smeared their tunics
red with blood. Some came home, and some
found homes where spirits are embraced.
Their descendants know a different way of war,
more lethal and more telling-
the bombard and the mass assault,
the arquebus and pike,
the canister and cannon,
the minie ball and shell,
mustard gas and trench mortar,
the blitzkrieg and the mushroom cloud,
cluster bomb and ******
and silent death from above.
Some believe the noble way
is killing face-to-face-
but I confess that death at distance
also has its place.
Ancient peoples fought their battles
firmly on the ground-
but we fight on a sea of war,
and we must swim, or drown.
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 11:17 PM UTC
What does an Alpha
have to do with the sniveling Betas
when one is hued in strength and wisdom like Atlas
and lagging behind are worthless Betas who are putrid haters
No crowns nor wisdom for Betas
all brawn and never in Olympia for nectar
mired in the craven underworld yelling at their betters
the galley slaves in mud splattered tunics as living spectres
Beneath noble feet they crawl
from ignorance they gaggle hemlock
in fear and ******* by centurions they hail and bawl
as Princes in chariots walk on marbles in envy the betas squawk
So What does an Alpha
have to do with the unrated Betas
when one is hued in strength and courage like Atlas
and lagging behind are worthless Betas who are reptiles and gators
noisy rabbles spawns of ****** vandals and cutthroats with cutlass
Sep 11, 2019
Sep 11, 2019 at 8:26 PM UTC