The Last Roll of the Dice Not Taken
There is that hope with feathers but my hope looks a bit like a scraggly chicken, one eye pecked out and a mangy rash on its neck, desperately foraging for seed amongst the rubble.
There is that hope with feathers but my hope looks a bit like a scraggly chicken, one eye pecked out and a mangy rash on its neck, desperately foraging for seed amongst the rubble.
She said, “You bring the poon, we’ll bring the doom.”
She was always down for trouble.
Always in some kind of it.