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Welcome ! | Home · FAQ · Topics · Web Links · Your Account · Submit Poetry · Top 30 · OldSite Link | 11-June 01:37:23 AEST | ||
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Array
(
[sid] => 147469
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Sixty-seven years old.
[time] => 2009-01-16 14:55:40
[hometext] =>
[bodytext] => Sixty-seven years old and he asks, if I'm gonna give him a hard time? Sticking a hunting knife in my stomach just hard enough so I know. He means business. Sixty-seven years old the age my old man died on the bathroom floor or toilet, if you're looking to split hair here,but either way. In his own home, not murdered in a downtown alleyway, pushed into by some crack-meth-head. I'm moving to the country when this is all over I think to myself, as I hand over my just cashed pension check, watch, and wedding ring. There's gotta be a bathroom somewhere upstate waiting to take me peacefully. [comments] => 1 [counter] => 154 [topic] => 43 [informant] => fanniesson [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 9 [ratings] => 2 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => oops )
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