I have my ship.

Love of Country.

Critics suddenly do a back flip, piss into the wind, and do a belly laugh, following by a loud fart, and a blue cloud.

I never wanted the longest horror show in history, where the caste is bored and spinning round by emptiness inspired yarns, waiting for the hand of God to write upon them, a poem, to set it right upon a stone, hard headed pounding sound, drilling into the unholy earth, pound after pound.

Liberals who wail at Trump's imperfections need to look in the mirror.

I got my lost loving crow back, and she sang two songs with another sound, bowing her head to let me know, she's no ordinary bird.

My new flame: Helga the Horrible, has been at her desk, doing things with her pecks.