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hey Jack KerouacI think of your motherand the tears she cried, she cried for none otherthan... Video
hey Jack Kerouac I think of your mother and the tears she cried, she cried for none other than her little boy lost in our little world that hated and that dared to drag him down her little boy courageous who chose his words from mouths of babes got lost in the wood hip flask slinging madman, steaming cafe flirts they all spoke through you
This is very simple in the world of chicks: some are hoochies, some are not, and some should never try to be. It's no different from the idea of sports. Now, I can go on my little rowing machine for four times a week, twenty-two minutes a time, and I can feel as if I flirt with the sporting world. Similar to the idea that a woman can put on something cuter for her man, for those moments, and flirt with garments that a hoochie woman might be pushing. But never for one moment should you get confused. My little rowing machine and I cannot consider ourselves athletes. Wearing the same garment does not a hoochie woman make. So if you are a true hoochie woman, may garments below the navel always be in your future. If you are not, then please don't throw away your cotton zippy jacket.
I leaned right over to kiss your stoney book A little jealous of the ships with whom you flirt A billion lovers with their cameras Snap to look and in my fantasy I sail beneath your skirt
He paused and stood up, looking at the shadows under the trees. His voice was lower when he spoke again. "But we'll leave part of the kill for â€¦" He knelt down again and was busy with his knife. The boys crowded round him. He spoke over his shoulder to Roger. "Sharpen a stick at both ends." Presently he stood up, holding the dripping sow's head in his hands. "Where's that stick?" "Here." "Ram one end in the earth. Oh â€” it's rock. Jam it in that crack. There." Jack held the head and jammed the soft throat down on the pointed end of the stick which pierced through into the mouth. He stood back and the head hung there, a little blood dribbling down the stick." Instinctively the boys drew back too; and the forest was very still. They listened, and the loudest noise was the buzzing of the flies over the spilled guts."
Jack Benny: We're a little late, so good night, folks.
There â€™s a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft, To keep watch for the life of poor Jack.
Is not the whole world a vast house of assignation of which the filing system has been lost?
Jack stood up as he said this, the bloodied knife in his hand. The two boys faced each other. There was the brilliant world of hunting, tactics, fierce exhilaration, skill; and there was the world of longing and baffled common-sense.
For he could coin, or counterfeit New words, with little or no wit; Words so debas'd and hard, no stone Was hard enough to touch them on; And when with hasty noise he spoke 'em; The ignorant for current took 'em;
Today the discredit of words is very great. Most of the time the media transmit lies. In the face of an intolerable world, words appear to change very little. State power has become congenitally deaf, which is why --but the editorialists forget it --terrorists are reduced to bombs and hijacking.
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