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/hobby/ - Hobby

"Our hands pass down the skills of the last generation to the next"
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File: 1608525580567.jpg ( 21.71 KB , 736x414 , notcrying.jpg )


Loyal parents who sacrificed so much for the nation
Never feared the ultimate fate.
Now that the country has become red,
who will be its guardian?

Our mission, unfinished, may take a thousand years.
The struggle tires us, and our hair is grey.
You and I, old friends,
can we just watch our efforts be washed away?


Go to /hobby/ dude.


Step foward: we hear
That you are a good man.
You cannot be bought, but the lightning
Which strikes the house, also
Cannot be bought.
You hold to what you said.
But what did you say?
You are honest, you say your opinion.
Which opinion?
You are brave.
Against whom?
You are wise.
For whom?
You do not consider personal advantages.
Whose advantages do you consider then?
You are a good friend
Are you also a good friend of the good people?

Hear us then: we know
You are our enemy. This is why we shall
Now put you in front of a wall.
But in consideration of
your merits and good qualities
We shall put you in front of a good wall and shoot you
With a good bullet from from a good gun and bury you
With a good shovel in the good earth.


Tony Harrison, A Cold Coming.

"A cold coming we had of it."
T. S. Eliot, Journey of the Magi

I saw the charred Iraqi lean
towards me from bomb-blasted screen,

his windscreen wiper like a pen
ready to write down thoughts for men,

his windscreen wiper like a quill
he's reaching for to make his will.

I saw the charred Iraqi lean
like someone made of Plasticine

as though he'd stopped to ask the way
and this is what I heard him say:

'Don't be afraid I've picked on you
for this exclusive interview.

Isn't it your sort of poet's task
to find words for this frightening mask?

If that gadget that you've got records
words from such scorched vocal chords,

press RECORD before some dog
devours me mid-monologue.'

So I held the shaking microphone
closer to the crumbling bone:

'I read the news of three wise men
who left their sperm in nitrogen,

three foes of ours, three wise Marines
with sample flasks and magazines,

three wise soldiers from Seattle
who banked their sperm before the battle.

Did No. 1 say: God be thanked
I've got my precious semen banked.

And No. 2: O praise the Lord
my last best shot is safely stored.

And No. 3: Praise be to God
I left my wife my frozen wad?

So if their fate was to be gassed
at least they thought their name would last,

and though cold corpses in Kuwait
they could by proxy procreate.

Excuse a skull half roast, half bone
for using such a scornful tone.

It may seem out of all proportion
but I wish I'd taken their precaution.

They seemed the masters of their fate
with wisely jarred ejaculate

Was it a propaganda coup
to make us think they'd cracked death too.

disinformation to defeat us
with no post-mortem millilitres?

Symbolic billions in reserve
made me, for one, lose heart and nerve.

On Saddam's pay we can't afford
to go and get our semen stored.

Sad to say that such high tech's
uncommon here. We're stuck with sex.

If you can conjure up and stretch
your imagination (and not retch)

the image of me beside my wife
closely clasped creating life…

(I let the unfleshed skull unfold
a story I'd been already told,

and idly tried to calculate
the content of ejaculate:

the sperm in one ejaculation
equals the whole Iraqi nation

times, roughly, let's say, 12.5
though that .5's not now alive.

Let's say the sperms were an amount
so many times the body count,

2,500 times at least
(but let's wait till the toll's released!).

Whichever way Death seems outflanked
by one tube of cold bloblings banked.

Poor bloblings, maybe you've been blessed
with, of all fates possible, the best

according to Sophocles i.e.
'the best of fates is not to be'

a philosophy that's maybe bleak
for any but an ancient Greek

but difficult these days to escape
when spoken to by such a shape.

When you see men brought to such states
who wouldn't want that 'best of fates'

or in the world of Cruise and Scud
not go kryonic if he could,

spared the normal human doom
of having made it through the womb?)

He heard my thoughts and stopped the spool:
'I never thought life futile, fool!

Though all Hell began to drop
I never wanted life to stop.

I was filled with such a yearning
to stay in life as I was burning,

such a longing to be beside
my wife in bed before I died,

and, most, to have engendered there
a child untouched by war's despair.

So press RECORD! I want to reach
the warring nations with my speech.

Don't look away! I know it's hard
to keep regarding one so charred,

so disfigured by unfriendly fire
and think it once burned with desire.

Though fire has flayed off half my features
they once were like my fellow creatures',

till some screen-gazing crop-haired boy
from Iowa or Illinois,

equipped by ingenious technophile
put paid to my paternal smile

and made the face you see today
an armature half-patched with clay,

an icon framed, a looking glass
for devotees of "kickinng ass",

a mirror that returns the gaze
of victors on their victory days

and in the end stares out the watcher
who ducks behind his headline: GOTCHA!

or behind the flag-bedecked page 1
of the true to bold-type-setting SUN!

I doubt victorious Greeks let Hector
join their feast as spoiling spectre,

and who'd want to sour the children's joy
in Iowa or IIinois

or ageing mothers overjoyed
to find their babies weren't destroyed?

But cabs beflagged with SUN front pages
don't help peace in future ages.

Stars and Stripes in sticky paws
may sow the seeds for future wars.

Each Union Jack the kids now wave
may lead them later to the grave.

But praise the Lord and raise the banner
(excuse a skull's sarcastic manner!)

Desert Rat and Desert Stormer
without scars and (maybe) trauma,

the semen-bankers are all back
to sire their children in their sack.

With seed sown straight from the sower
dump second-hand spermatozoa!

Lie that you saw me and I smiled
to see the soldier hug his child.

Lie and pretend that I excuse
my bombing by B52s,

pretend I pardon and forgive
that they still do and I don't live,

pretend they have the burnt man's blessing
and then, maybe, I'm spared confessing

that only fire burnt out the shame
of things I'd done in Saddam's name,

the deaths, the torture and the plunder
the black clouds all of us are under.

Say that I'm smiling and excuse
the Scuds we launched against the Jews.

Pretend I've got the imagination
to see the world beyond one nation.

That's your job, poet, to pretend
I want my foe to be my friend.

It's easier to find such words
for this dumb mask like baked dogturds.

So lie and say the charred man smiled
to see the soldier hug his child.

This gaping rictus once made glad
a few old hearts back in Baghdad,

hearts growing older by the minute
as each truck comes without me in it.

I've met you though, and had my say
which you've got taped. Now go away.'

I gazed at him and he gazed back
staring right through me to Iraq.

Facing the way the charred man faced
I saw the frozen phial of waste,

a test-tube frozen in the dark,
crib and Kaaba, sacred Ark,

a pilgrimage of Cross and Crescent
the chilled suspension of the Present.

Rainbows seven shades of black
curved from Kuwait back to Iraq,

and instead of gold the frozen crock's
crammed with Mankind on the rocks,

the congealed geni who won't thaw
until the World renounces War,

cold spunk meticulously jarred
never to be charrer or the charred,

a bottled Bethlehem of this come-
curdling Cruise/Scud-cursed millenium.

I went. I pressed REWIND and PLAY
and I heard the charred man say:





just posted this here cause mao zedong wrote it in a letter to zhou enlai when both were dying


Moving this thread to hobby


Is haiku allowed?


Exile songs (Pere Quart, 1939)

In a full moon night
we pulled the ridge,
slowly, quietly…
If the moon was at its biggest
our sorrow was too.

My beloved accompanies me
tanned skin and serious bearing
like a God's Mother
someone found in the mountain.

So she forgives our war,
that covers her in blood, and tares her apart.
Before crossing the line, (border between Catalonia and France)
I sit and kiss the ground
and caress it with my shoulder.

In Catalonia I left
the day of my departure
half of my life drowsing:
the other half came with me
not to left me lifeless.

Today in France's lands
and tomorrow further maybe,
I won't die of nostalgia
yet of nostalgia I will live.

In my Vallès' land (a region of Catalonia)
three hills form a mountain chain,
four pines a thick forest,
five acres too much land.
"There's nothing like the Vallès"

Let the pines hug the cove,
the hermitage on top of the hill;
and on the beach a small sunshade
that beats like a wing.

A melted hope,
an infinite remorse.
And such a small homeland
that I dream about all together.


I don’t like it


Faces in the Street by Henry Lawson

They lie, the men who tell us, for reasons for their own
That want is here a stranger, and that misery's unknown;
For where the nearest suburb and the city proper meet
My window-sill is level with the faces in the street –
Drifting past, drifting past,
To the beat of weary feet –
While I sorrow for the owners of those faces in the street.

And cause I have to sorrow, in a land so young and fair,
To see upon those faces stamped the marks of Want and Care;
I look in vain for traces of the fresh and fair and sweet
In sallow, sunken faces that are drifting through the street –
Drifting on, drifting on,
To the scrape of restless feet;
I can sorrow for the owners of the faces in the street.

In hours before the dawning dims the starlight in the sky
The wan and weary faces first begin to trickle by,
Increasing as the moments hurry on with morning feet,
Till like a pallid river flow the faces in the street –
Flowing in, flowing in,
To the beat of hurried feet –
Ah! I sorrow for the owners of those faces in the street.

The human river dwindles when 'tis past the hour of eight,
Its waves go flowing faster in the fear of being late;
But slowly drag the moments, whilst beneath the dust and heat
The city grinds the owners of the faces in the street –
Grinding body, grinding soul,
Yielding scarce enough to eat –
Oh! I sorrow for the owners of the faces in the street.

And then the only faces till the sun is sinking down
Are those of outside toilers and the idlers of the town,
Save here and there a face that seems a stranger in the street,
Tells of the city's unemployed upon his weary beat –
Drifting round, drifting round,
To the tread of listless feet –
Ah! My heart aches for the owner of that sad face in the street.

And when the hours on lagging feet have slowly dragged away,
And sickly yellow gaslights rise to mock the going day,
Then flowing past my window like a tide in its retreat,
Again I see the pallid stream of faces in the street –
Ebbing out, ebbing out,
To the drag of tired feet,
While my heart is aching dumbly for the faces in the street.

And now all blurred and smirched with vice the day's sad pages end,
For while the short `large hours' toward the longer `small hours' trend,
With smiles that mock the wearer, and with words that half entreat,
Delilah pleads for custom at the corner of the street –
Sinking down, sinking down,
Battered wreck by tempests beat –
A dreadful, thankless trade is hers, that Woman of the Street.

But, ah! to dreader things than these our fair young city comes,
For in its heart are growing thick the filthy dens and slums,
Where human forms shall rot away in sties for swine unmeet,
And ghostly faces shall be seen unfit for any street –
Rotting out, rotting out,
For the lack of air and meat –
In dens of vice and horror that are hidden from the street.

I wonder would the apathy of wealthy men endure
Were all their windows level with the faces of the Poor?
Ah! Mammon's slaves, your knees shall knock, your hearts in terror beat,
When God demands a reason for the sorrows of the street,
The wrong things and the bad things
And the sad things that we meet
In the filthy lane and alley, and the cruel, heartless street.

I left the dreadful corner where the steps are never still,
And sought another window overlooking gorge and hill;
But when the night came dreary with the driving rain and sleet,
They haunted me – the shadows of those faces in the street,
Flitting by, flitting by,
Flitting by with noiseless feet,
And with cheeks but little paler than the real ones in the street.

Once I cried: `Oh, God Almighty! if Thy might doth still endure,
Now show me in a vision for the wrongs of Earth a cure.'
And, lo! with shops all shuttered I beheld a city's street,
And in the warning distance heard the tramp of many feet,
Coming near, coming near,
To a drum's dull distant beat,
And soon I saw the army that was marching down the street.

Then, like a swollen river that has broken bank and wall,
The human flood came pouring with the red flags over all,
And kindled eyes all blazing bright with revolution's heat,
And flashing swords reflecting rigid faces in the street.
Pouring on, pouring on,
To a drum's loud threatening beat,
And the war-hymns and the cheering of the people in the street.

And so it must be while the world goes rolling round its course,
The warning pen shall write in vain, the warning voice grow hoarse,
But not until a city feels Red Revolution's feet
Shall its sad people miss awhile the terrors of the street –
The dreadful everlasting strife
For scarcely clothes and meat
In that pent track of living death – the city's cruel street.


File: 1608525642283.jpg ( 12.53 KB , 200x113 , parasite poem.jpg )

i already posted this on a different tread but here:


"their many kinds of parasites,creatures who go round,till they find you and suck you out

you see the small pest,you dont feel your best

that bloodsucker is not very nice,but the doctor might help…..for a price

you feel your veins and wallet getting light,you go to your boss,giving you a raise he might

he wants you to work more,you feel the parasite sucking to your core

you make the company a dollar,they give you a dime,sadly your all out of time

your dying as you realize this wasn't the first time you and a parasite met,the entire time….


remember kids,the true monsters are not the ones that look like it,their the people spending all their wealth to look like saint while people around him die


I'm a poetryfag and "Lenin" by Langston Hughes is one of my favorites. Short and simple but it always gets me:

Lenin walks around the world
Frontiers cannot bar him
Neither barracks nor barricades impede
Nor does barbed wire scar him

Lenin walks around the world
Black, brown, and white receive him
Language is no barrier
The strangest tongues believe him

Lenin walks around the world
The sun sets like a scar
Between the darkness and the dawn
There rises a red star


File: 1608525899884.jpg ( 90.3 KB , 749x537 , Homelessness poem.jpg )

Post stuff like pic related also bump


File: 1608525902054.jpg ( 53.13 KB , 604x604 , bee.jpg )



Another good poem by this man

Молчяние - шит от многих бед
А болтовня всегда во вред
Язык у Человека мал
А сколько жизней он сломал



>kept getting aggressively recommended to me in ads on Facebook, so I decided to check it out

…I have some poem just for you right here, buddy.

''OP waited.
The light of his e-cig blinked.
There were trolls lurking in the thread.
He didn't see them, but had expected them, now for hours.
His warnings to the mods were not listened to and now it was too late.
Far too late for now, anyway.

OP was an internet user aged fourteen.
When he was younger he watched the threads on imageboards and he said to dad "I want to make the threads, daddy."
There was a time when he believed him.
Then as he got older he stopped.
But now in his thread on Bunkerchan he knew there were lurkers.

"This is Alice," some Discord chat cracker.
"You must fight the reactionaries!"
So OP got ready to concentrate by grabbing his "plasma rifle", if you know what I mean.
"HE GONNA CALL THE JANNIES," said the trolls!
"I will shitpost at him," said the nazbol lurker and fired his reactionary missile.
OP plasmaed at someone posting pics, but then the wigs fell off and they were traps.
"No! I must call the jannies," he shouted!
The Discord said "No, OP. You are the reactionary."

And then, OP was a fagot.''


I wrote a book of poetry



Have no real experience with English poetry (apart from trying original Shakespeare once and realizing that the translated version was way better), but I know a bit of Lithuanian poetry. I always loved the first three verses of this 19th century natlib poem that can be effortlessly made to be socialist. Tried to translate it as best as I could:

[b]You won't dam the river[/b]

You won't dam the river,
It would flow slowly if left on its own;
You won't stop a new rising,
Even if to greet it you are afraid.

New ideas - not a work of a child:
They throw storms and lighting when dammed!
You won't the time:
Fools can only hinder its works.

People, the coming day
At least our children will see!
Let us break this ancient wall,
Only a madman for it would weep!

There is a lot of other good stuff I know, but I am afraid that I'd only bastardize it by translating.




The Milkman Cometh

I am the Milkman. My milk is delicious.
I am the Milkman. I come in peace.
I am the Milkman. I come for you.

I am the Milkman. My milk is healthy
I am the Milkman. Accept my milk.
I am the Milkman. Accept my work

Come enjoy my milk, for I am the Milkman.


File: 1608526802621.jpg ( 74.79 KB , 1280x720 , dying hiruzen.jpg )

Hiruzen, was defined as the professor. The one who inspired multiple generation of Shinobi to stand and fight for the will of fire.
Even when he himself no longer believed in it.
He is an old man.
An old teacher who can only teach.
Like all professors, he once had students.
Like all professors, he had his favourites.
Orochimaru was his chosen prodigy. What Nagato and Minato were for Jiraya.
But Hiruzen never really desired peace until his later years.
The old man we meet, Sarutobi-sensei for the legendary sannin, was nothing more than a shell of his past glory.
From the very begining, we knew that he would die.
He failed to protect and guide hte fourth so that he would survive.
He failed to kill Orochimaru, so that his evil would not thrive.
He failed to help Tsunade deal with her grief, so she could live.
He failed to give hope to Jiraya, so that his dream would arrive.
He failed, because he was too old.
His life, and Tsunade's words, give us a good idea of the life of Shinobi.
Either you die at the end of a short, but brilliant life.
Or you die weakened and harried by years of fall.
But before he let go of his last breath, he once again regained the will of fire.
Sacrificing himself.
Thus fell Sarutobi Hiruzen.
Third Hokage.



File: 1608526802989.jpg ( 70.35 KB , 800x447 , Sannin.jpg )

Jiraya lost hope but not his dream. Orochimaru lost his sanity but not his strength. Tsunade lost everything she held dear and held to what was less painful.
That is the sannin beyond all of the misticism and power leveling.
Three fifty year old people who have nothing to tie them to Konoha. The last link between them was Hiruzen.
And Orochimaru killed him to have it finally cut.
When the fight begins, Hiruzen remark to the Snake he trained: "have you come to have regrets?"
Boredom is the answer of said snake.
Everything is a game. Because for it not To be would imply that death has a true meaning.
And dead don't achieve anything.
When Jiraya trains Naruto, he does not believe in him.
Why should he?
After all, the boy barely seems able to think for himself outside of his obsession.
A far cry from Nagato and Minato.
He found in a place torn by war a boy who wished for peace.
He found in his home town a boy a kin to prodigious.
But it was the one who had known peace as well as prejudice who could bring the rest of the world to Jiraya's Dream.
When they go look for Tsunade, Jiraya think of the Jinchuriki. When Naruto gets insulted, the toad sage barely defends him.
Tsunade had lost her last link to her clan.
She had lost her last link to a family.
She wasn't about lose the last link to the man she loved.
So she fled her past and dreams.
She abandoned hope and just kept on surviving. A far cry to who she used to be. To such a point her title of Sannin meant nothing to the easy cash you could gain with betting against her.
She barely cared for her last link to Konoha dying.
And yet.
When Naruto learned the rasengan and won his bet, Tsunade had to admit she was wrong. That to put your life on Line for what you believe in is always worth it.
Orochimaru began to fear the charisma Naruto possessed.
When Naruto later tells Jiraya that he will find Sasuke, that he will fight, Jiraya regains hope.
That is the tragedy of the sannin.



File: 1608526803342.png ( 1.79 MB , 2000x2538 , Yummy Milk.png )

>faggot mods deleted the pic related
really nigga? It was spoilered FFS


File: 1608526805095.png ( 43.71 KB , 718x441 , saddam.png )

Anon from Iraq here, i like this poem by Saddam so i figured I'd translate it(my translation might not be perfect):

Unleash to her the sword, no fear nor fright
Unleash to her the sword, and let Saturn witness
Unleash to her the sword, for the enemy has mobilized to her
For it is not praised, except by the saint hero
Saddle to her the horses, and let her let loose
However it wills, for in its ways is the hope
Let the lightnings thunder in the darkness lavas
Until the right shows, and injustice is let down
And shine in the face of darknesses whenever it darkens
Torches wherever lives the miserable bastard
And spark your trigger, and keep the fire blazing
Frightening the losing enslaved bastard
Unleash to her the sword, strip it and bless it
For none wins the right, except the determined man
And prepare for her a flag in every pole
And pray to Allah, that the wound heals

Original Arabic:

This poem was part of Saddam's speech right before the american invasion
Here's the speech on youtube:
The poem starts at 3:38 and ends at 5:14


Excellent stuff. Thanks




ping pong da dee ding dong


File: 1608526878635.jpg ( 216.36 KB , 1280x720 , 1592831289.dictatorship_в_….jpg )

On streets electric shocks from stun gun shoot the shadows of crowds
People go jeeringly and attempts succeed behind a veil

Listen to Him whispering "this for the good" behind shadows
The invisible Brother suggestively pursue you

Form a line, you a machine of obedience
Enjoy yourself and now you should know thoughtfulness is guilt

In nightscape everywhere the voices of hatred are cried with ecstasy
They stomp around jeeringly to intercept deviant people

Listen to Him repeating "this for the good" by the windows
The invisible Brother is watching you like a parent

Stomp around, you a machine of good
Repeat out and now you should know thoughtfulness is guilt

Jeeringly people, people, people's eyes pursue you
Jeeringly people, people, people's eyes watch you
Jeeringly people, people, people's eyes pursue
Jeeringly people, people, people's eyes watch you
Jeeringly people, people, people's eyes pursue you

Cruelly showing tomorrow is not for you
It covers every corner on the earth and crush the dream for escape

Listen to Him repeating "this for the good" in front of you
The invisible Brother is suggestively watching you

Stand in line, you a servant of obedience
Resign yourself now you should know thoughtfulness is guilt

Jeeringly people, people, people's eyes pursue you
Jeeringly people, people, people's eyes watch you
Jeeringly people, people, people's eyes pursue
Jeeringly people, people, people's eyes watch you
Jeeringly people, people, people's eyes pursue you


My favourite poem: Dis Loesung by Brecht:
After the uprising of the 17th of June
The Secretary of the Writers' Union
Had leaflets distributed on the Stalinallee
Stating that the people
Had forfeited the confidence of the government
And could only win it back
By increased work quotas. Would it not in that case be simpler
for the government
To dissolve the people
And elect another?


Matt Christman read it on his stream once, and it really stuck for me:

by John Betjeman

Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough!
It isn't fit for humans now,
There isn't grass to graze a cow.
Swarm over, Death!

Come, bombs and blow to smithereens
Those air-conditioned, bright canteens,
Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans,
Tinned minds, tinned breath.

Mess up the mess they call a town—
A house for ninety-seven down
And once a week a half a crown
For twenty years.

And get that man with double chin
Who'll always cheat and always win,
Who washes his repulsive skin
In women's tears:

And smash his desk of polished oak
And smash his hands so used to stroke
And stop his boring dirty joke
And make him yell.

But spare the bald young clerks who add
The profits of the stinking cad;
It's not their fault that they are mad,
They've tasted Hell.

It's not their fault they do not know
The birdsong from the radio,
It's not their fault they often go
To Maidenhead

And talk of sport and makes of cars
In various bogus-Tudor bars
And daren't look up and see the stars
But belch instead.

In labour-saving homes, with care
Their wives frizz out peroxide hair
And dry it in synthetic air
And paint their nails.

Come, friendly bombs and fall on Slough
To get it ready for the plough.
The cabbages are coming now;
The earth exhales.


Some funny ones from the 1001 Arabian Nights

>Women are an inn where you go

>only one day and then replaced by one you do not know.



File: 1608526895509.jpg ( 5.7 KB , 320x180 , mqdefault.jpg )

>Foolish man, do you beg the moon for love?
>Who would beg the moon above?


>I saw her to my great misfortune.
>What agony it was to peave her there.
>The gazelle spotted amongst two leaves
>water poured from the silver vase
>She spotted me and hid her love mound
>but it peered out
>to spend an hour or two with her.


Pasolini's adaptation of classic Arabic poetry. Very nice



Arabic poem on women's beauty.

>Dark-haired and slim-waisted,

>Her buttocks were like sand dunes
>and hrr figure like that of a ban tree

>There were four things never before united

>except to pierce my heart and shed my blood:
>a radiant forehead, hair like night,
>a rosy cheek and a slim form.


beautifully descriptive


I really wish Malcolm C. Lyons had found a way to make it rhyme. Many Arabic poems have rhymes and puns and they get lost in translation.


Chorus in Parentheses

(The danger looms, to our dismay,
We won’t be safe, night or day,
Hide the goats, the kids, the maid,
He’s on the hunt, and we’re the game…)

(It would be best to stay away,
Lest you become the monster’s prey,
He’ll tear you up, rip and fray,
And dine upon your ripe fillet…)

In the jungle, the murky jungle,
The lion prowls tonight…
Through savanna, swamp, and desert,
For human flesh to bite…


In the village, the blood-stained village,
The lion feasts tonight…
On the children, the starving children,
Who’ll never again see the light…


Hush, my darling, don’t move my darling,
For the lion lurks tonight…
He’s a killer of our tribe, and,
We think he’s got a pride…




File: 1608526940567.png ( 505.23 KB , 1400x1400 , Snake Feet Suess.png )



File: 1704841499235.pdf ( 172.51 KB , 232x300 , Following the witch.pdf )

Following the witch: another hymn to Aphrodite. A poem about witchcraft.


They called my post Reddit-tier / That made me feel not welcome here


liberals come here
and they shit up every thread
go back to Reddit


That didn't rhyme?


he is a lib and should go kill himself
when will he know the depths of his folly

Unique IPs: 4

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