since i was a boy of five, my father has carried these olive drab green World War Two footlockers with him. I remember in the early sixties moving the footlockers from Mr Emory Rudd's shed where he had stored them. We moved them to Monticello. From Monticello to Kentucky, then back to Florida to Crawfordville, to finally come to rest in Williston. From time to time over the years I would look in the boxes mostly full of old tools and various things and wonder then forget about them.
This past March, my father passed away, and we now have the sad task of having to disperse his property and things. Going through the hot metal buildings, I again came upon the eight stacked foot lockers. My son and I lugged and tugged and loaded them onto the trailer and hauled them to our home in Lake City.
Two of the footlockers were especially heavy, and these were filled with old books, some really old, from the early 1800's.
I look forward this coming week to getting these old books out of the dark, musty footlocker and into a more controlled environment. Problem is, our home is overflowing now with relics and what nots, my wife about to have a fit.
In Air Corp foot lockers from the second world war
The old books were stacked, forgotten and stored.
Today I opened the shed and recovered the gems.
From 1856 a copy of Isaac Watts selected hymns.
Older yet, selected notes from John Wesley's journal.
Old truths hidden again see the light eternal!
As guardian of the old volumes
May I be a worthy holder of these rare rods blossoming.
Too frail to read, we hold them in reverence.
As if from eternity to us they have been lent
To return someday to the authors of
the rare and faded parchment.
It was indeed an exciting and sad prospect, opening the old boxes, the old smell of the ages emanating forth from the relics. It was like opening sealed time capsules. Some of the old tools I remembered as a child. Others I had no idea what they were as technology had long updated them to unrecognizable objects.
Would that I had a mansion or a museum in my list of earthly possessions, a place to store the hoards of things I reluctantly hold onto. I am the only sentimental soul of our family, so I am the guardian, the last bastion for these visitors from the past. After I go, they also go. Perhaps Nathaniel will capture my love for things old and past and carry on. We shall see. We shall wait and see.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Son Hung Moon by john clare
6/12/2011 with a full moon coming on, it was my plan to paddle upstream from Cone Bridge landing and capture the moon in all its glory and profit from it. It was a well-laid plan and I am now a wealthy man....
The word leaked out
the moon was full
they tried to keep
it secret
It did not work.
My plan was launched
to paddle upstream
just where the river
bends and the
moon roosts by
night.
In the waning light
just under the tree;
I crept up and began
my work;
Out came the moon jack,
to lift it from the branch.
Then a tug on the
sky bar to loosen her up.
She began to roll into
the canoe
and before I knew
I was heading down stream
moon in tow.
No need for a lantern,
In my captives glow.
I made it to the landing
and took out the
night creeper and
hoot awl.
I then took the
gold chisel
to chip away chunks
of the moon gleams.
Before long the beams
were stacked and ready
for sale;
My first customer was
the Luna Tick who
needed a light to help
him in the flesh to stick.
Next came the
Moon Calf
in need of some light
in order to daydream
at night.
The Moon Flower
paid richly for a glow
to bloom come day
showing the
Morning Glory who ruled
the sunny day.
The Lunatic Fringe
needed a bit
Just enough to stave
their frequent fits.
The Moon Struck
came by and thanked
me for removing
the source of his malady.
The Moon Raker sailed
past toward the abyss
the simple soul aghast
the Moon was captive.
The final transaction
for the eve
was the Moon Blind
man who needed a
bigger beam to tap
his path.
I did not charge him
for the night stick
for I had plenty of
shine on hand.
Though tonight I made
quite a haul,
I look forward to the fall.
Word on the street
Is come the month of October
There rises a harvest Moon
larger, oranger
than any
moon hunter ever
captured.
Now that would be a
Moonish Dream.
My plan now I must
scheme.
The word leaked out
the moon was full
they tried to keep
it secret
It did not work.
My plan was launched
to paddle upstream
just where the river
bends and the
moon roosts by
night.
In the waning light
just under the tree;
I crept up and began
my work;
Out came the moon jack,
to lift it from the branch.
Then a tug on the
sky bar to loosen her up.
She began to roll into
the canoe
and before I knew
I was heading down stream
moon in tow.
No need for a lantern,
In my captives glow.
I made it to the landing
and took out the
night creeper and
hoot awl.
I then took the
gold chisel
to chip away chunks
of the moon gleams.
Before long the beams
were stacked and ready
for sale;
My first customer was
the Luna Tick who
needed a light to help
him in the flesh to stick.
Next came the
Moon Calf
in need of some light
in order to daydream
at night.
The Moon Flower
paid richly for a glow
to bloom come day
showing the
Morning Glory who ruled
the sunny day.
The Lunatic Fringe
needed a bit
Just enough to stave
their frequent fits.
The Moon Struck
came by and thanked
me for removing
the source of his malady.
The Moon Raker sailed
past toward the abyss
the simple soul aghast
the Moon was captive.
The final transaction
for the eve
was the Moon Blind
man who needed a
bigger beam to tap
his path.
I did not charge him
for the night stick
for I had plenty of
shine on hand.
Though tonight I made
quite a haul,
I look forward to the fall.
Word on the street
Is come the month of October
There rises a harvest Moon
larger, oranger
than any
moon hunter ever
captured.
Now that would be a
Moonish Dream.
My plan now I must
scheme.
Win,Place,Go by john clare
6/13/2011 many ways, this tongue in cheek satire on a girl who once worked with us, who was going through a divorce, was sad. we actually did bet casually how long the relationship would last, knowing from the start, things just did not add up, and they didn't.
The day you met
We placed our bets
To see how long
It would last.
Those star struck eyes
The lost in space gaze
Oh how smooth
He played
For it was not
You he cast his spell
But upon your mom
And we could see
By her giddy way
She was thinking
Back to her prom.
We'll he caught
His bass without a fight
Without even a lure
Reeled you and mom
Right in with just his looks
Never dreaming two
Fish were on the hook.
And who was it who
Wagered half a year?
Why, it would take that
Long just to unhook
Mommy dear.
Along around nine the
Kid came along
That put a crimp in the
Wagering throng.
For with the mom
and now the minnow
It looked more like the
Long term wager would
Be the winner.
All went smooth for the time
We forgot the bet and
Stood around tossing dimes.
You were seen in the big Tahoe
He was off guarding the
Foreign cargo.
Then from the blue came
The word that you were through.
We pulled our wagers and
Would you know
I was the one who said
You would make it to two!
Pay up you morbid gamblers
Of a life!
You home hating bums
Betting on strife!
What ever came of the times
We never would wage?
Knowing, what's the use?
Marriage was once for life.
The day you met
We placed our bets
To see how long
It would last.
Those star struck eyes
The lost in space gaze
Oh how smooth
He played
For it was not
You he cast his spell
But upon your mom
And we could see
By her giddy way
She was thinking
Back to her prom.
We'll he caught
His bass without a fight
Without even a lure
Reeled you and mom
Right in with just his looks
Never dreaming two
Fish were on the hook.
And who was it who
Wagered half a year?
Why, it would take that
Long just to unhook
Mommy dear.
Along around nine the
Kid came along
That put a crimp in the
Wagering throng.
For with the mom
and now the minnow
It looked more like the
Long term wager would
Be the winner.
All went smooth for the time
We forgot the bet and
Stood around tossing dimes.
You were seen in the big Tahoe
He was off guarding the
Foreign cargo.
Then from the blue came
The word that you were through.
We pulled our wagers and
Would you know
I was the one who said
You would make it to two!
Pay up you morbid gamblers
Of a life!
You home hating bums
Betting on strife!
What ever came of the times
We never would wage?
Knowing, what's the use?
Marriage was once for life.
Cinder Memories by john clare
Steve Plymale, my old running friend from the eighties called from Valdosta and wanted to meet up with some of the old runners. The few we could muster on short notice met at the Firehouse Subs for lunch and some good memories. Steve, Rick Bringger and Forest Wright.
Where went the fleet of foot?
The swift sprint from the blocks?
Spikes stabbing the cinder track
Rounding the oval nine never looking back.
We inhaled the rare air of the sub five
The last gasp spent to touch the thin line
How brief the push of the starters time
As landed fish our gills aflame cried.
On dusty shelves the tarnished trophies remind
When feet were fleet and fast the times
Batons relayed to the last man
The fading photo of personal bests so grand.
And to the track the old harriers forever meet
They hear the final call for the measured mile
Upon the staggered lines they edge their way
Then step back and let the youth win the day.
Where went the fleet of foot?
The swift sprint from the blocks?
Spikes stabbing the cinder track
Rounding the oval nine never looking back.
We inhaled the rare air of the sub five
The last gasp spent to touch the thin line
How brief the push of the starters time
As landed fish our gills aflame cried.
On dusty shelves the tarnished trophies remind
When feet were fleet and fast the times
Batons relayed to the last man
The fading photo of personal bests so grand.
And to the track the old harriers forever meet
They hear the final call for the measured mile
Upon the staggered lines they edge their way
Then step back and let the youth win the day.
Cloud Flowers by john clare
we had returned from Alabama from the wedding. along the way we were stopped by the Highway Patrol with a speed warning, then caught under a red light camera in Tallahassee. My spirit sagged. Then I got to recalling the days of blessings past and wrote something to lift the spirit.
When tickets add up and things just do not seem to be going any way...6/14/2011
In fields of blue
I picked a cloud
Just for you
Put it in a prism jar
Glittered it with
a dash of star
wrapped it in
a sheet of wind
tied it off
with a strand
of sun beam
Laid it at your
steps and rained away.
I took a ticking clock
and set back the
hands of time
At the strike of one
we woke from mats
and ran to recess fun
At the stroke of three
The happy hour
on bars of monkey
Never giving it a thought
that hands below were
spinning time.
Down by the bubbling sink
Where seers and sages
went to think
We laid our thoughts upon
the sand
Scribbling messages only seers
could understand
and sages would sweep so we
could lay our thoughts
all over again.
In attics lost I found
the magic set
I waved the wand and recited
the spell
And from the top hat the
rabbit fell.
About time, he said, How
could you forget?
Forgive me
My mind was
sand upon the sink.
In plein air we stretched
canvas taut
Made some lines from the
lightening bugs we caught
Splashed on colors from the
rainbow pots
Hung it from the cloudy tips
Gave the angels something to
enjoy between their trips.
So down to earth the bouquet
blooms at your door
Only I rained but I rain no more
The clock has spun and now
its nearing three thirty-three
It seems I've left the rabbit
with the monkey
And the angel says, the work
is tainted with a purple haze.
While I stand drenched upon
the playground
And no one comes to play.
When tickets add up and things just do not seem to be going any way...6/14/2011
In fields of blue
I picked a cloud
Just for you
Put it in a prism jar
Glittered it with
a dash of star
wrapped it in
a sheet of wind
tied it off
with a strand
of sun beam
Laid it at your
steps and rained away.
I took a ticking clock
and set back the
hands of time
At the strike of one
we woke from mats
and ran to recess fun
At the stroke of three
The happy hour
on bars of monkey
Never giving it a thought
that hands below were
spinning time.
Down by the bubbling sink
Where seers and sages
went to think
We laid our thoughts upon
the sand
Scribbling messages only seers
could understand
and sages would sweep so we
could lay our thoughts
all over again.
In attics lost I found
the magic set
I waved the wand and recited
the spell
And from the top hat the
rabbit fell.
About time, he said, How
could you forget?
Forgive me
My mind was
sand upon the sink.
In plein air we stretched
canvas taut
Made some lines from the
lightening bugs we caught
Splashed on colors from the
rainbow pots
Hung it from the cloudy tips
Gave the angels something to
enjoy between their trips.
So down to earth the bouquet
blooms at your door
Only I rained but I rain no more
The clock has spun and now
its nearing three thirty-three
It seems I've left the rabbit
with the monkey
And the angel says, the work
is tainted with a purple haze.
While I stand drenched upon
the playground
And no one comes to play.
Fathers Day Long by john clare
6/18/2011
While going through the past relics at my fathers place, I came across the little Daisy pop gun resting in a nook, rusted and quite worn. I recalled when my son's used this little gun before moving up to a regular Red Rider version.
Do you recall that Father's day past
When dad's so young with little boys
Crept so quietly with the BB poised
How times would always last.
It came so quickly that March day
The first Father's day without a dad
And all of a sudden I'm the grand dad
And how I miss the young Luther Ray.
I'll wear his bolo with the arrow head
Hold the little one and shed a tear
Tell him as I was told, don't fear
With dad's old brass compass we'll be led.
So to you father's in our Old Town canoe,
Who recalls the days of landing bluegill
If I was able but for one wish to fulfill,
To be with dad, aiming the Red Rider true.
While going through the past relics at my fathers place, I came across the little Daisy pop gun resting in a nook, rusted and quite worn. I recalled when my son's used this little gun before moving up to a regular Red Rider version.
Do you recall that Father's day past
When dad's so young with little boys
Crept so quietly with the BB poised
How times would always last.
It came so quickly that March day
The first Father's day without a dad
And all of a sudden I'm the grand dad
And how I miss the young Luther Ray.
I'll wear his bolo with the arrow head
Hold the little one and shed a tear
Tell him as I was told, don't fear
With dad's old brass compass we'll be led.
So to you father's in our Old Town canoe,
Who recalls the days of landing bluegill
If I was able but for one wish to fulfill,
To be with dad, aiming the Red Rider true.
Suwannee Threnody by john clare
Do you recall the day the Suwannee died?
The only water found were the tears we cried.
The Cooters climbed the rocks and wailed
Overhead in missing river formation the
Sandhills sailed.
In perilous pockets the gators baked in the mud
Fifty years to wallow from the hundred year flood.
The bluegill and the bass swam for the Gulf
Only to float in the brine of Fowler's Bluff.
Under the cypress the racoons knelt upon the knees
No prayerful cleansing of crayfish in the river reeds.
The Sturgeon leaped onto the limestone banks
Died their eggs as the egrets picked through their ranks.
Way upon the dried up river bed
Where once the river otter fed
The old folks mourned no more to roam
In baptism pools the Baptists had to sprinkle on.
From Fargo to Big Shoals the pall bearing
portage of the canoes
We set up camp upon the wake of the sandy slew
Just at the coming dawn we journey down
Past the meeting place of the Creeks hunting ground.
Where Wildcat and Osceola heard the gurgling sound.
The white sulphur springs of abundance held in renown.
From the Itchetucknee a trickling vestige of the flowing years
When in the cool depths we floated past limpid eyed deer.
The loggers came and pulled the old growth cypress out
Once home to moccasin and catfish lurking about.
The treasure seekers left their little piles of sand askance
Sifting for arrow points or Black Beard's buried cache.
And so ends the threnody way down upon the Suwannee
Our hearts sad and weary as we lowered her into the sea.
The only water found were the tears we cried.
The Cooters climbed the rocks and wailed
Overhead in missing river formation the
Sandhills sailed.
In perilous pockets the gators baked in the mud
Fifty years to wallow from the hundred year flood.
The bluegill and the bass swam for the Gulf
Only to float in the brine of Fowler's Bluff.
Under the cypress the racoons knelt upon the knees
No prayerful cleansing of crayfish in the river reeds.
The Sturgeon leaped onto the limestone banks
Died their eggs as the egrets picked through their ranks.
Way upon the dried up river bed
Where once the river otter fed
The old folks mourned no more to roam
In baptism pools the Baptists had to sprinkle on.
From Fargo to Big Shoals the pall bearing
portage of the canoes
We set up camp upon the wake of the sandy slew
Just at the coming dawn we journey down
Past the meeting place of the Creeks hunting ground.
Where Wildcat and Osceola heard the gurgling sound.
The white sulphur springs of abundance held in renown.
From the Itchetucknee a trickling vestige of the flowing years
When in the cool depths we floated past limpid eyed deer.
The loggers came and pulled the old growth cypress out
Once home to moccasin and catfish lurking about.
The treasure seekers left their little piles of sand askance
Sifting for arrow points or Black Beard's buried cache.
And so ends the threnody way down upon the Suwannee
Our hearts sad and weary as we lowered her into the sea.
Old Town V by john clare
Though kayaking is the vogue, I continue to prefer the canoe. I have an Old Town Royalex canoe and a Mohawk fiberglass canoe. The only thing that keeps me from taking them on my outings is the heaviness of them. My next boat will be an Old Town Pack canoe, light enough to carry.
I was at work and saw this customer walk in with an Old Town Tee Shirt with the nine bow ends of the Old Town Canoes. That got me to thinking about my canoe upon the rack back home.
The nine bow tee of the
Old Town canoe
Upon the man with the
left-crooked shoulder
Told me it's time to
Seek the blue waters
where the old crook
Paddlers ne'er grow older.
V tracks of Chippewa fan
out upon the smooth
stream as the bending
branch sings in muffled
shouts of splashion against the
scratched up stern.
Still the stroke but as the
waters narrow the V converges
on the closing banks then
returns to rock me in the wake.
And I am supple and the
muscles lean as the
crook lowers strong.
Old Town of old men with
the bending blade
The long to paddle through
to the dawn's desire
Slipping silently past the
clamoring crowds casting nets
Sinking them wholly in the
converging V.
I was at work and saw this customer walk in with an Old Town Tee Shirt with the nine bow ends of the Old Town Canoes. That got me to thinking about my canoe upon the rack back home.
The nine bow tee of the
Old Town canoe
Upon the man with the
left-crooked shoulder
Told me it's time to
Seek the blue waters
where the old crook
Paddlers ne'er grow older.
V tracks of Chippewa fan
out upon the smooth
stream as the bending
branch sings in muffled
shouts of splashion against the
scratched up stern.
Still the stroke but as the
waters narrow the V converges
on the closing banks then
returns to rock me in the wake.
And I am supple and the
muscles lean as the
crook lowers strong.
Old Town of old men with
the bending blade
The long to paddle through
to the dawn's desire
Slipping silently past the
clamoring crowds casting nets
Sinking them wholly in the
converging V.
Masters Keys by john clare
I continue today with the many,many poems(if you call them that)from Facebook Notes that mostly have gone unseen, unread, uncommented on...placing them on blog so they can continue unseen,unread,uncommented upon...life of bad poetry...
this latest entry relates to finding a set of keys from my fathers place. The doors,gates,trunks that they opened long gone, unknown.
I came upon the keys to the garden
Tucked deeply away in the tin box
Rusting and dusty were the closed
Master Locks
In brittle leather pouches on
soft brass hardened.
Once upon the hinges the gates
swung wide
The yellow Gravely passing
through to unturned fields
Neatly hung in the shed the
tools of abundant yields
The little boy hoeing at the
Gardener's side.
And then he sent me with the keys
The Master waiting patiently
in the furrowed dust
To the little one the keys in his trust
My first prayers, Dear God!
The Garden depends upon me!
And in a sweet click and a
quick turn
I ran with the precious water
for the seed
The Master pleased with the
little boys deed
As wide-eyed there was so much
to learn.
And so the keys to the garden
are in my hands
The old Gravely waits for me
to turn the key
But the gate is gone along
with the property.
I hope the Master understands.
this latest entry relates to finding a set of keys from my fathers place. The doors,gates,trunks that they opened long gone, unknown.
I came upon the keys to the garden
Tucked deeply away in the tin box
Rusting and dusty were the closed
Master Locks
In brittle leather pouches on
soft brass hardened.
Once upon the hinges the gates
swung wide
The yellow Gravely passing
through to unturned fields
Neatly hung in the shed the
tools of abundant yields
The little boy hoeing at the
Gardener's side.
And then he sent me with the keys
The Master waiting patiently
in the furrowed dust
To the little one the keys in his trust
My first prayers, Dear God!
The Garden depends upon me!
And in a sweet click and a
quick turn
I ran with the precious water
for the seed
The Master pleased with the
little boys deed
As wide-eyed there was so much
to learn.
And so the keys to the garden
are in my hands
The old Gravely waits for me
to turn the key
But the gate is gone along
with the property.
I hope the Master understands.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Hold Me A River by john clare
lately, the rivers in our region have flowed at all time lows. there are places upon the upper Suwannee River you can literally straddle.
Have you ever held a river in your hand?
Cupped the flow and made a dam?
Straddling the banks where I stand
Passes the Suwannee trickling lazily down.
Once upon this place the paddle wheel steamed
To lumber mills the cypress logs jammed high
Now I place a walnut shell vessel in the stream
And watch the ant upon the twig mast sail by.
Have you ever built a bridge out of sticks?
Spanned the Suwannee with your skills?
Then let it fall with just a little kick
As sands crumble and the pylon holes are filled?
Can the infant skip the smooth stone across?
Where once the man strained to cast aflight
the rocks into the far swaying moss?
Little David's all felling the giant once mighty.
Can the man outrun the river once swift?
When raging it carried him in uncaring abandon?
The white waters churned, the canoes did lift
Tossing the contents, washing ashore in distant landings.
I lie in the cool tannic and slowly I drench
The once under toes now jutting to a dry reach
All about me lies the death of a rivers stench
The water lost man unable to drown upon the dried beach.
Have you ever held a river in your hand?
Cupped the flow and made a dam?
Straddling the banks where I stand
Passes the Suwannee trickling lazily down.
Once upon this place the paddle wheel steamed
To lumber mills the cypress logs jammed high
Now I place a walnut shell vessel in the stream
And watch the ant upon the twig mast sail by.
Have you ever built a bridge out of sticks?
Spanned the Suwannee with your skills?
Then let it fall with just a little kick
As sands crumble and the pylon holes are filled?
Can the infant skip the smooth stone across?
Where once the man strained to cast aflight
the rocks into the far swaying moss?
Little David's all felling the giant once mighty.
Can the man outrun the river once swift?
When raging it carried him in uncaring abandon?
The white waters churned, the canoes did lift
Tossing the contents, washing ashore in distant landings.
I lie in the cool tannic and slowly I drench
The once under toes now jutting to a dry reach
All about me lies the death of a rivers stench
The water lost man unable to drown upon the dried beach.
Koh-i-noor by john clare
Persian for Mountain of light, Kohinoor is also the brand of a rapidograph pen I used to enjoy drawing with. It is also a priceless, grand diamond held in trust currently by England, much disputed over through the past five hundred years.
To the mountain of light you must journey
The voice within the cloud to me spoke
No staff, no purse, all you must empty
It shall take your all to carry my yoke.
All I had I sold and gave away
Still there was not enough for the trip
I asked with what now can I pay?
Thyself I require! Sealed with coal to the lip.
And with the joy of a slave
A kiss and then the journey long
My words lost in order to save
Koh-i-noor! Koh-i-noor!
I sing thy joyful song!
To the mountain of light you must journey
The voice within the cloud to me spoke
No staff, no purse, all you must empty
It shall take your all to carry my yoke.
All I had I sold and gave away
Still there was not enough for the trip
I asked with what now can I pay?
Thyself I require! Sealed with coal to the lip.
And with the joy of a slave
A kiss and then the journey long
My words lost in order to save
Koh-i-noor! Koh-i-noor!
I sing thy joyful song!
Tour Time by john clare
Each July I am in front of the tele with Versus on watching the tour de france bicycle race. Naturally, I must compose a poem to my favorite sport, next to track and field....
July and time for the Tour
Will it be another podium for Contador?
Can Schleck keep from jumping the chain?
Will doping rear its head again?
I'll root for Basso and Liquigas
or Team Garmin and the Americans
Danielson, Zabriskie, Van Velde and Ferrar fast.
I hope Leipheimer or Horner win a stage
Remnants of Armstrong's legendary age.
Hincapie on BMC in his final Tour
Never again to lead the peloton up the
steep Col de Tourmalet.
On his wheels the young Garderen and Pate glide
The Highroad welcoming the white jersey young riders.
In twenty-one stages the yellow jersey is crowned
And hopefully I'll just be inspired to pedal around.
98 years of cycling through France
Still they hate the Americans and Lance.
Kids and trikes grow into men on bikes.
But in our country it's all in fall football hikes.
No matter, come July second I'll be glued to Versus
Eagerly listening to Paul and Phil
call the race for us
Me in my tight lycra attire
the seams about to bust!
July and time for the Tour
Will it be another podium for Contador?
Can Schleck keep from jumping the chain?
Will doping rear its head again?
I'll root for Basso and Liquigas
or Team Garmin and the Americans
Danielson, Zabriskie, Van Velde and Ferrar fast.
I hope Leipheimer or Horner win a stage
Remnants of Armstrong's legendary age.
Hincapie on BMC in his final Tour
Never again to lead the peloton up the
steep Col de Tourmalet.
On his wheels the young Garderen and Pate glide
The Highroad welcoming the white jersey young riders.
In twenty-one stages the yellow jersey is crowned
And hopefully I'll just be inspired to pedal around.
98 years of cycling through France
Still they hate the Americans and Lance.
Kids and trikes grow into men on bikes.
But in our country it's all in fall football hikes.
No matter, come July second I'll be glued to Versus
Eagerly listening to Paul and Phil
call the race for us
Me in my tight lycra attire
the seams about to bust!
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