It was the custom for the disaffected of those days to make known their grievances by distributing papers on doors of public buildings, and even strawing them in the high way, for the benefit of the chance passenger.
Shitcakes! Charlie exclaimed, shaking his head in bewilderment. You really do dance your own tango.
Shitcakes!
You really do dance your own tango.
Door would slam shut whenever they needed the slightest favor, suppliers would sneer and shit on them with impunity, making things so humiliating and disagreeable that it would almost be a mercy when the final blow fell, and they were banished to run fertiliser sales in Buttfuckistan.
But if that I knewe what his name hight, For clatering of me I would him ſone quight; For his falſe lying, of that I ſpake never, I could make him ſhortly repent him forever: […]
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