I shed the skin of our stupidity.

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.

WE HAVE FRIENDS IN LOW PLACES.