Our little life is but a gust That bends the branches of thy tree, And trails its blossoms in the dust!
If there were a merciful God in Heaven, He would give me arms that I might strangle this bitchwad.
Bob prick’d his lug and scratch’d his pate / For he was flushed with joy, / To think that he should be revenge’d / Upon the Butcher Boy.
Ever since I've been here
アカウントを持っていませんか？ 新規登録
アカウントを持っていますか？ ログイン
DiQt（ディクト）
無料
★★★★★★★★★★
