"whistler" poems
Age and Grace
Her steps were always slow;
Even in youth she swayed,
Walked with sultry composure
And seductive flow.
Like a heathen goddess,
She tempers movement with grace.
It was not done out of vanity,
But pleasure in the flowing stream of steps
That mark her pace.
The relaxed fulcrum of her hip
Tilts with undulations in the turf;
Her feet tread lightly with a claim
On the summer fields,
On the bending trees
Where beauty still abounds..
She savors the trailing of her skirt
Through unseen paths in drooping grass.
Until the evening mist accrues
From out the forest paths
Caressing her as she yields,
Until she and it are almost one.
Like Whistler’s “breath on a pane of glass”,
She bargains with nature,
Waning to become an aesthetic phantom.
She stops at a window and watches
With a sad smile, the warm light on life,
The laughter, talk and dancing grace
Of her children, who don’t yet know
The bittersweet taste of withered garlands.
Yet she accepts and passes into the dusk.
Now she executes a careful,
Battement fondu as her hands dip
To reach the soaking pods
Of next year’s summer flowers.
Every move must be planned,
To manage every hour.
For they are as precious now,
As her own days,
Fading into glory and reborn,
Into spring and youth’s careless riot.
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 11:19 AM UTC
The emus formed a football team
Up Walgett way;
Their dark-brown sweaters were a dream
But kangaroos would sit and scream
To watch them play.
"Now, butterfingers," they would call,
And such-like names;
The emus couldn't hold the ball
- They had no hands - but hands aren't all
In football games.
A match against the kangaroos
They played one day.
The kangaroos were forced to choose
Some wallabies and wallaroos
That played in grey.
The rules that in the West prevail
Would shock the town;
For when a kangaroo set sail
An emu jumped upon his tail
And fetched him down.
A whistler duck as referee
Was not admired.
He whistled so incessantly
The teams rebelled, and up a tree
He soon retired.
The old marsupial captain said,
"It's do or die!"
So down the ground like fire he fled
And leaped above an emu's head
And scored a try.
Then shouting, "Keep it on the toes!"
The emus came.
Fierce as the flooded Bogan flows
They laid their foemen out in rows
And saved the game.
On native pear and Darling pea
They dined that night:
But one man was an absentee:
The whistler duck - their referee -
Had taken flight.
9.7k
Standing in the darkened garage
I listen to the whistling winter air
And think of times so long ago
And of one who is not there
My Grand dad was a whistler
No matter what he did
Whether reading, sitting, standing still
Whistling is what he did
He told me once the secret was
To purse your lips and blow
It took me years to figure out
But the secret I now know
No one whistles anymore
I love to hear a whistle or a trill
whether someone is just walking by
Or it's a bird out on the hill
I think of Grandad everytime
I hear a whistle sound
I only wish deep in my heart
That he was still around
Chopin, List, John Lennon
It didn't matter one **** bit
He would whistle what was in his head
And I would listen and I'd sit
Grandad could make music
No matter where he was
His whistle made him special
At least, special to us
No one whistles anymore
I love to hear a whistle or a trill
whether someone is just walking by
Or it's a bird out on the hill
I think of Grandad everytime
I hear a whistle sound
I only wish deep in my heart
That he was still around
The wind sounds high and vicious
As I listen through the door
It's a sound Grandad made daily
It's a sound I hear no more
A simple act of moving air
Across one's lips is all
But Grandad could translate it
Into a wild birds call
No one whistles anymore
I love to hear a whistle or a trill
whether someone is just walking by
Or it's a bird out on the hill
I think of Grandad everytime
I hear a whistle sound
I only wish deep in my heart
That he was still around.
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 4:13 PM UTC
Hark! Now everything is still,
The screech-owl and the whistler shrill,
Call upon our dame aloud,
And bid her quickly don her shroud!
Much you had of land and rent;
Your length in clay ’s now competent:
A long war disturb’d your mind;
Here your perfect peace is sign’d.
Of what is ‘t fools make such vain keeping?
Sin their conception, their birth weeping,
Their life a general mist of error,
Their death a hideous storm of terror.
Strew your hair with powders sweet,
Don clean linen, bathe your feet,
And—the foul fiend more to check—
A crucifix let bless your neck:
’Tis now full tide ‘tween night and day;
End your groan and come away.
3.9k
When, like a running grave, time tracks you down,
Your calm and cuddled is a scythe of hairs,
Love in her gear is slowly through the house,
Up naked stairs, a turtle in a hearse,
Hauled to the dome,
Comes, like a scissors stalking, tailor age,
Deliver me who timid in my tribe,
Of love am barer than Cadaver's trap
Robbed of the foxy tongue, his footed tape
Of the bone inch
Deliver me, my masters, head and heart,
Heart of Cadaver's candle waxes thin,
When blood, spade-handed, and the logic time
Drive children up like bruises to the thumb,
From maid and head,
For, sunday faced, with dusters in my glove,
Chaste and the chaser, man with the cockshut eye,
I, that time's jacket or the coat of ice
May fail to fasten with a ****** o
In the straight grave,
Stride through Cadaver's country in my force,
My pickbrain masters morsing on the stone
Despair of blood faith in the maiden's slime,
Halt among eunuchs, and the nitric stain
On fork and face.
Time is a foolish fancy, time and fool.
No, no, you lover skull, descending hammer
Descends, my masters, on the entered honour.
You hero skull, Cadaver in the hangar
Tells the stick, 'fail.'
Joy is no knocking nation, sir and madam,
The cancer's fashion, or the summer feather
Lit on the cuddled tree, the cross of fever,
Not city tar and subway bored to foster
Man through macadam.
I dump the waxlights in your tower dome.
Joy is the knock of dust, Cadaver's shoot
Of bud of Adam through his boxy shift,
Love's twilit nation and the skull of state,
Sir, is your doom.
Everything ends, the tower ending and,
(Have with the house of wind), the leaning scene,
Ball of the foot depending from the sun,
(Give, summer, over), the cemented skin,
The actions' end.
All, men my madmen, the unwholesome wind
With whistler's cough contages, time on track
Shapes in a cinder death; love for his trick,
Happy Cadaver's hunger as you take
The kissproof world.
3.4k
Whether it's winter and skiing,
or it's spring site-seeing,
Either summer and biking,
or even late fall hiking;
Whistler has it all.
From snowshoeing to canoeing,
even as far as golf to frolf,
Whistler is the place to be,
with so much for you to see.
There's zip-lining to fine dining,
or ice skating and fish baiting,
including a tour of bears,
you choose your story to share.
Many come from far away,
just to live the Whistler day,
as we bring people together,
while they make memories forever,
because Whistler has it all.
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 3:05 PM UTC
WHISTLING AND SNIFFING SIMULTANEOUSLY
Whistling and sniffing at the same time
Can’t hold hands or rather get married
United and collaborative in any case
This duo may perhaps land into the life of some person
The kind of man whose who acts,
Performs duties of the shepherd on the flock.
Like his initial master,
He condemns wickedness,
Goes against what is religiously evil,
And exults the righteous.
But he soon he craves for another pair of his robe
For he does accumulate an avalanche of resources,
His eyes are soon blinded.
Would his robe evade being soiled?
Co-operative sniffing and whistling,
Can hatch into temptations to anybody,
Even the half-human, half God
Did he not get tested in the wilderness?
Our big man opens his eyes one day,
Finds himself campaigning and competing for,
Trying to woo for citizens’ keys,
Essentials for serving the people in a wider circle.
Perhaps his whistling guides his path.
Brings him in the companionship of
Other servants of the people.
Any devoted service present in that house really?
Brotherly whistling and sniffing,
May make one’s conscience slither backwards,
Two or more steps into mud.
He is now influential,
A famous societal figure.
His fat salary seconded with some allowances.
Or even thirded with public developmental resources,
Guarantees him total luxury.
Is this not an opportunistic opportunist?
Our Sniffer and whistler is contended,
Complacent with his success.
Jubilant with him servant is his ‘first Master ’
For keeping to the ‘sacred’ scriptures.
The vehicle which carried him straight,
One way to heaven gets crippled,
It can’t manage to hit the road
Like its American, British and Chinese counterparts,
His sincere promise goes unfulfilled
Unmet due to his pretentious pretence.
His ‘second’ Master gets extremely mad.
For loyalty and faithfulness denied.
And furiously plucks him from glory.
Simultaneous whistling and sniffing,
The ‘initial’ heaven can’t simply put up with them.
A wise servant of the masses
A true leader should only whistle at a time,
Sniff at a time.
But not sniffing and whistling simultaneously.
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 3:28 AM UTC
Under a stagnant sky,
Gloom out of gloom uncoiling into gloom,
The River, jaded and forlorn,
Welters and wanders wearily--wretchedly--on;
Yet in and out among the ribs
Of the old skeleton bridge, as in the piles
Of some dead lake-built city, full of skulls,
Worm-worn, rat-riddled, mouldy with memories,
Lingers to babble to a broken tune
(Once, O, the unvoiced music of my heart!)
So melancholy a soliloquy
It sounds as it might tell
The secret of the unending grief-in-grain,
The terror of Time and Change and Death,
That wastes this floating, transitory world.
What of the incantation
That forced the huddled shapes on yonder shore
To take and wear the night
Like a material majesty?
That touched the shafts of wavering fire
About this miserable welter and wash--
(River, O River of Journeys, River of Dreams!)--
Into long, shining signals from the panes
Of an enchanted pleasure-house,
Where life and life might live life lost in life
For ever and evermore?
O Death! O Change! O Time!
Without you, O, the insuperable eyes
Of these poor Might-Have-Beens,
These fatuous, ineffectual Yesterdays!
2.3k
I'm tempted to yell
Beneath the waxing moon,
Call to the hood whistler
To whistle a tune I knew.
Just one I could recognize,
One to identify;
But it's well above zero
On this shortest day of the year.
My compassion over-rides
The duality in the airs.
Still there's no inkling
Of whatever he's whistling;
I can't locate
Where it originates.
He'll be inside soon,
As we move to hibernate;
I sincerely hope he's there,
Whatever tune he airs,
Come Spring.
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 5:49 PM UTC
_the mythic Esther notwithstanding_;
the only Jewish Miss America was
Bess Myerson; Miss New York, &
exemplar of classic beauty c.1945
studying German philosophy
living on the upper east side;
surrounded by rich Park Avenue
Jews - spewing Nietzschean
Nihilism causing them to _shudder_
at the thought of relatives dragged
from homes never to be seen
again; they don't want to hear
that **** - my buddy Mingus Jr.
bringing mechanical bebop to
his constructed paintings;
on
the other hand, I'm going on & on
about Heidegger & Schopenhauer,
Brian Eno, David Bowie, Hegel,
****** Goebbels & Riefenstahl;
my paintings are violent; as if
Jack the Ripper & James Whistler
were the same guy; all women are
beautiful by nature, but I would've
done it different - put the snooch
on top, the udders on the bottom,
*** in front, arms & legs splayed
out to the sides; yes, that's better,
Diane Arbus, Ann Frank, Hannah
Arendt, Dori Bernstein, Alison
Linefsky & Eva Hesse are more
beautiful than Lilith & Eve mixed;
I hate being called a antisemitic;
it's a painful reminder that at the
moment I don't have a Jewish gf
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 2:17 PM UTC
*Winter, tricky entrapper,
cozy cuddler, night fiddler
nuzzler, tantalizer, whistler
sharp nailed cruel lover
seasonal unfailing seductress,
sprawling on the bed cloth of December,
rolling over a few months either side,
I would never take her for granted.
I see her peep through
the window curtains,
spying at the warm days eyeing me
and waiting for her to climb down the steps;
she is jealous, as she wants to linger
playfully riding on my back.
she seeped in to my blood stream,
like the narcotic effect of grass,
before I know it happens
little by little to make me
forget my other loves completely
even without my permission.
Her wiliness is stealthily at work,
to monopolize me fully
separating me from others
yes, winter is cleverness clad in white.
Now, I am at her mercy, completely
my fingers, chest and lips strangely
enjoy the cold caresses, she gives each!
I realize, she has taken over-
my body and paints my mind's canvas,
with bubbling hallucinatory white,
she wants others tightly on her leash,
my other loves complain:
"you act just what is her will
you always wear her fragrance,
on you what an influence she wields!"
can I help when winter my darling,
brooks no excuses!
She exposes me before others
I look like a pusillanimous one,
cowering and cringing before her
none, even my true love, has
such absolute control over me
like she exerts, it's a secret
but true that I wriggle to get out,
of this white net she tenderly knitted-
for my comfort, which is,
pleasurable I think, to an extent,
yet difficult to accept at the same time.
Let us part before long, not to make
our relationship much complicated,
I'll wait, till the next season arrives
you are in my list of periodic partners,
I'll be ready with warmth in my heart,
for your eventful visit, that leaves
an impression far too long to ever forget.*
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 7:58 AM UTC
Your new side was fake
And covered in all the rust you need
To start a war.
There were springs sticking out
From holes in the mattress
The night you told me
I was void of form.
It must haunt you now
To think that I'm such a good abstraction.
Lacrimosa,
Lacrimosa...
My dear,
I'd prefer to sing alone.
To think of you washed
In all the colors falling
Like Whistler's Rocket
So far below the moon...
I cry away any sanctity
Placed upon me in my youth.
When I am stricken
With all the words
Uttered over the silence
Of our modern, beautiful
Communication...
I will fall silent.
I will fall still.
I will be quiet,
But I will be swift,
And I will be void of mercy
To all but myself.
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 7:38 PM UTC
Paintings delight my eye and ignite my imagination: Devotional icons, the omni cubist view, the brazen eyes of Whistler and Manet; and Monet's lilies.
The perspectives of the renaissance and the violence of Caravaggio; the lush glowing skin of Rubens' nudes; and more!
I celebrate the intellects that created these.
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 6:04 PM UTC
The whistler was a policeman
He whistled when he wrote a ticket
One citizen was so incensed
He told the officer to stick it.
But the officer understood.
He had heard complaints before.
They seemed to miss the point
As what this whistling was for.
They didn’t realize that he
Whistled as well when nervous.
He monitored himself carefully
When he was in the service.
War is often no kind of place
To be making unwitting noise.
He was reprimanded by
The officer and the boys.
But Sam, the whistling cop
Had done so all his life
He whistled different ways
Even like a sailor’s fife.
He could trill like a bird
And do the best of all;
That kind of whistle
That wonderful taxi call.
It was an amazing to hear;
He could whistle too
From the side of his face
So you had no idea who
Was making that music
As his lips were not pursed.
That made it more maddening
To a few people that cursed.
As part of his job, one day,
A hotelier called him in
To deal with the issue
Of a dead resident within.
Sam hated blood and death.
It made him quite queasy.
So, he went about this task
But for him, it was not easy.
With a dead body in his arms
Quaking with internal fear
The hotelier objected to his song
Sam asked what he wanted to hear.
He was whistling The Blue Waltz’
In his pitch perfect rendition
To keep his mind off of the corpse
And off of his own condition.
But, oh boy, could he whistle
Making music in every day.
Creating lasting memories
I recall up until this day.
That officer, Sam, you see
Too often in a spot of bother
Was known as Whistling Sam
And was also my father.
Oct 21, 2015
Oct 21, 2015 at 12:38 PM UTC
There was once a boy who almost drowned
inside his own self pity and doubt.
But if you could ever get him to smile,
he would sit in his car and whistle a while.
He whistled Coldplay, he whistled Muse,
he whistled notes only birds could use.
He whistled the sweetest, saddest songs,
that made you wish you could sing along.
There was a time that came one day
when I sent that whistling boy away.
He almost drowned, but then he was saved
by the only girl that made him cave.
So when he came back, there I met him,
there, in his car, with the lights all dim.
And there he played his Muse and Coldplay
And there he whistled until the end of his days.
It reminded me of how life should be,
a sweet and complicated melody.
He taught me to whistle, the best gift of all
a gift I can always quickly recall.
I realized then that we'd always be friends,
until he whistled no more at the end.
But for now, we'll sit and whistle a while,
I'll do my best to get him to smile.
I look forward to when I see him soon,
so he can whistle to me life's beautiful tune.
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 8:19 PM UTC
We follow the bridleway that dissects the growing field of wheat, now dark green and vigorous after it's Spring dose of nitrogen. Pass the smouldering ruin of a bonfire which has been awaiting the torch for weeks. Charred black are two big sections of oak trunk which I considered purloining every time I passed, but decided they looked too heavy to move.
Reach the road, rein in the dog's lead, turn right. The thatch I renewed a few years back is definitely not looking new any more. Past the houses, past the one where the whistler lives. All the way across the wide East Anglian field I often hear him trilling, when we are both pottering in our gardens. He has a brick outhouse, probably a former loo or wash house. A thrush is sitting on top of the chimney and a blackbird on the weather vane, they look about four feet apart. I pick up a lager can, crush it and slip it in my back pocket. A pigeon climbs, claps its wings and glides back down. Jogger's footsteps catch up from behind. It's the chap who owns a Harley Davidson.
I turn back into our lane, a skylark is singing loud and clear above us to the left. A rabbit dashes across the lane a few yards ahead, disappears. The dog's ears go straight up and he eagerly sniffs its trail. Back home.
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 4:58 PM UTC
Her steps were always slow;
Even in youth she swayed,
Walked with sultry composure
And seductive flow.
Like a heathen goddess,
She tempers movement with grace.
It was not done out of vanity,
But pleasure in the flowing stream of steps
That mark her pace.
The relaxed fulcrum of her hip
Tilts with undulations in the turf;
Her feet tread lightly with a claim
On the summer fields,
On the bending trees
Where beauty still abounds..
She savors the trailing of her skirt
Through unseen paths in drooping grass.
Until the evening mist accrues
From out the forest paths
Caressing her as she yields,
Until she and it are almost one.
Like Whistler’s “breath on a pane of glass”,
She bargains with nature,
Waning to become an aesthetic phantom.
She stops at a window and watches
With a sad smile, the warm light on life,
The laughter, talk and dancing grace
Of her children, who don’t yet know
The bittersweet taste of withered garlands.
Yet she accepts and passes into the dusk.
Now she executes a careful,
Battement fondu as her hands dip
To reach the soaking pods
Of next year’s summer flowers.
Every move must be planned,
To manage every hour.
For they are as precious now,
As her own days,
Fading into glory and reborn,
Into spring and youth’s careless riot.
Nov 11, 2018
Nov 11, 2018 at 10:38 AM UTC
Nothing I say is funny,
but somehow it's hysterical.
I hear whistling in the morning,
but I don't see the whistler.
Go jog; then to a sprint.
(through a slaughterhouse)
Tell me, can you imagine yourself?
(covered in insects) Rotting between
the ears,
Do you ever find yourself trying?
(too hard)
(way too hard)
Trying to account for lost time.
Wake up at 1 a.m. -getting shocked.
Feel your heart (sprint) and stop on a dime.
Feel your heart stop (once in a while)
Learn to love what's good and good for you.
No rotting out. More speaking out.
Nothing I say is funny,
but somehow it's hysterical.
I hear whistling in the morning,
but I don't see the whistler.
Dec 19, 2012
Dec 19, 2012 at 12:12 PM UTC
In the Appalachian mountains
Up a cove, at Miller's Creek,
Lived a man they called the whistler,
Long white hair, and mild and meek.
Whistler John would sit from sun up
As the fog rose from the hills,
Til the golden ball was setting
You could hear his lonesome trills.
You could hear him talk to robin,
Speak to sparrows, owls at night,
He befriended crows and finches
And the likes of ole Bob White.
As he sat beneath the willow
He would listen hard and long,
Paying mind to his companions,
Naming them by their sweet song.
One evening as the sun was setting
An eagle flew far overhead,
A whippoorwill kept on singing,
But no one answered, John was dead.
As he lay beneath the willow,
The birds sensed something must be wrong,
For a moment there was silence,
John's companions hushed their song.
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 9:31 AM UTC
like getting through the end of song you really enjoyed
like accidentally listening to someone's voice and thinking it's him
like a whistler on the subway
that takes you back to the moment
we first fell in love
you don't even try to see the light
you don't even try to look out
you don't want to
how does it feel
to burn your skin like this
to put your heart out
so easily
that anybody could just grab it
and take it away
maybe it doesn't feel like this
maybe I'll be there
as long as you keep your promises
and love me as my heart beats
Aug 14, 2016
Aug 14, 2016 at 10:49 PM UTC
South Carolina summers were hot,
They were long and dry,
And for Mama, they were lonley.
Mama lived at the very end of our street.
She lived alone,
No chil'ren and no Husban'
She spent her days makin' sweet tea
And leomonaide, and pound cake.
She'd sit on her ol' rockin' chair,
And she'd whistle.
Mama was the best whistler in town,
All the kids in the neighboorhood came by
To hear her whistle.
She'd watch over us,
Scold those in need of scoldin'
She'd tell us not to climb the big oak tree
But we still did.
I didn't know it then,
But those long summers
Were the best I ever had.
The ice in my glass of sweet tea
Shone like diamonds.
And Mama's song,
Still plays in my head.
South Carolina summer were hot,
And they were too short.
Apr 3, 2017
Apr 3, 2017 at 8:29 PM UTC
Here's another story that might be true
Or at least that's what I've been told
Don't tell my wife I told you this
Or I just won't live to grow old
It happened about twenty-nine years ago
Well, give or take a day
Now listen close to this story I'll tell
For it happened just this way
I met this girl back in nineteen-eighty
She was as fine as she could be
Well, I just couldn't stop checking her out
And she was looking back at me
I asked her for a date, and she said, "Sure"
So I took her to the picture show
We were sitting pretty close, while sharing a coke
When they turned those lights down low
In the pitch black dark my ears begin to ring
I heard a whistle that was loud and clear
So I told my date that I'll be right back
As my finger finally found my ear
I crammed that thing in knuckles deep
When I noticed that the whistle was gone
'Til I sit back down and the whistle came back
And that's when I started to yawn
So that's when it hit me like a ton of bricks
"This chicks got a hearing aid"
'Cause everytime that I'd lean away
That whistle would start to fade
Well, I thought I should be a gentleman
So that's when I started to (YELL)
I scared the girl nearly half to death
And out of the seat she fell
She said, "What's wrong with you, are you crazy?
I said, "I DIDN'T KNOW YOU COULDN'T HEAR"
She said, "Please stop screaming at the top of your voice,
Can't you see that I'm standing right here?"
Well, that's how it happened when I met my wife
And that's how this story goes
She had a real bad cold that night we met
And the whistle was coming from her nose
Oct 28, 2010
Oct 28, 2010 at 11:45 PM UTC
I can leave a window open tonight
a breeze across the soft fuzz of my cheek.
I never sleep in this position
but on my back
I hear the lullaby:
street noises
a passing car
a train without people
going - somewhere.
A lone dog walker,
a whistler in the dark
a laugh - then gone.
will sleep stop this silent joy in my head?
then let me be.
eyes softly
resting in
the Bogart greys .
a thin cover of
the moon on my body,
my feet
slowly opening
out.
when so few are awake
there seems to be
more world for me to live in
coming through my window
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 10:30 PM UTC
“If I could only paint,” the despondent poet said,
“If I could only paint, I would surely knock’em dead.
Like Rembrandt or Picasso, like Whistler or Van Gogh.
I’d open up a gallery, and everyone would see
The pictures that I’d painted and they would envy me!”
“If I could write a novel,” the painter empathized.
“If I could write a novel, then I’d have realized,
My dream to be like Hemingway, Faulkner or Thoreau.
I’d be in all the book stores, my books would be top shelf,
And I would finally know that I’d made something of myself.”
“If I could hit a baseball,” the author next agreed,
“If I could hit a baseball, I’d be in the major league.
I’d hit home runs like Willie Mays, and run like Shoeless Joe.
The fans would come to all the parks to see me lead the team,
The kids would want my autograph, and all the crowd would scream.”
“If I was smart,” the ballplayer said, “And studied law in school,”
“Then I could be the President, and I’d make all the rules.
I’d be as great as Washington, FDR, and Honest Abe.
I would meet with foreign diplomats, and help the world find peace,
All America would know my name; Play ‘Hail to the Chief’”
“If I could write a poem,” the President bowed his head,
“If I could write a poem, my ego would be fed.
I’d describe the beauty of a flower, and the winds that softly blow;
I’d keep my poems in a journal, let no one ever see,
And be content in knowing that I had done it just for me.”
pwl 3/7/03
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 1:03 AM UTC