This blog was… how do you say it? Relevant!! Finally I have found something which helped me. Kudos!
— 분당출장마사지 (Bundang Business Trip Massage)
Kudos schmooze, loud grunt,
pinky swear, eigengrau hunt.
Rele-defecate!
(Just a little haiku to get you more edjumacated.)
— Tati & Tony (Two Super Helpful Conveyors of Blindingly Lustrous, Critically Relevant Nuggets of Information)
by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2022
Hi, this is Julia. I am sending you my intimate photos as I promised.
— arode
Hi, Julia! Thanks for the X-rays of your coccyx. They’re really exciting but may we suggest you consult a trauma specialist instead? (And we prefer CT images anyway. They’re sexier.)
— Tati & Tony (Epic Epicurists of Erotic Medical Imaging in Search of the Perfect Stapes)
by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2022
If I were young as you, Sixteen,
And you were old as I,
I would not be as I have been,
You would not be so shy,
We should not watch with careless mien
The golden days go by,
If I were young as you, Sixteen,
And you were old as I.
The years of youth are yours, Sixteen;
Such years of old had I,
But time has set his seal between
Dark eyebrow and dark eye.
Sere grow the leaves that once were green,
The song turns to a sigh:
Ah! very young are you, Sixteen,
And very old am I.
Red bloom-times come and go, Sixteen,
With snow-soft feet, but I
Shall be no more as I have been
In times of bloom gone by;
For dimmer grows the pleasant scene
Beneath the pleasant sky;
The world is growing old, Sixteen,
The weary world and I.
Ah, would that once again, Sixteen,
A kissing mouth had I;
The days would gaily go, I ween,
Though death should stand anigh,
If springtime’s green were evergreen,
If Love would never die,
And I were young as you, Sixteen,
And you were old as I.
by VICTOR JAMES DALEY (1858-1905)
Public Domain Poetry
The bloom is on the May once more,
The chestnut buds have burst anew;
But, darling, all our springs are o’er,
‘Tis winter still for me and you.
We plucked Life’s blossoms long ago
What’s left is but December’s snow.
But winter has its joys as fair,
The gentler joys, aloof, apart;
The snow may lie upon our hair
But never, darling, in our heart.
Sweet were the springs of long ago
But sweeter still December’s snow.
Yes, long ago, and yet to me
It seems a thing of yesterday;
The shade beneath the willow tree,
The word you looked but feared to say.
Ah! when I learned to love you so
What recked we of December’s snow?
But swift the ruthless seasons sped
And swifter still they speed away.
What though they bow the dainty head
And fleck the raven hair with gray?
The boy and girl of long ago
Are laughing through the veil of snow.
by ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE (1859-1930)
Public Domain Poetry
Quiet he lived, and quietly died;
Nor, like the unwilling tide,
Did once complain or strive
To stay one brief hour more alive.
But as a summer wave
Serenely for a while
Will lift a crest to the sun,
Then sink again, so he
Back to the bright heavens gave
An answering smile;
Then quietly, having run
His course, bowed down his head,
And sank unmurmuringly,
Sank back into the sea,
The silent, the unfathomable sea
Of all the happy dead.
by J.D.C. FELLOW (?-?)
Public Domain Poetry
unbolt me 