This clever move will certainly turn Slavemaster University benevolent

They’re trying to quell demands for the English Station PizzaSino

I would apply similar scrutiny

Bring back the strip club

Finally, a mayor for the 40,000 people who don’t live here yet

Day one shit

The Casket in the Crown It was dusk — it was ash — and a boy walked alone Through the hush of a fire-shorn wood, Where the trunks wore a velvet the night might have sown And a warm snow fell where he stood. For a score of her rings, in the vault of her crown, The pine had been holding her hoard — Every seed in a casket of amber sealed down Past the pry of the crossbill's crossed sword; And the sun came a-courting each summer at noon, And the rain tried the seams with its hands, But she gave them her shade and her turpentine tune, And she kept what she kept under bands. For she was betrothed, from the first of her rings, To a bridegroom of cinder and air, And nothing undoes what the wax-fastening brings But the heat of his mouth in her hair: At threescore degrees — at threescore, no more — The amber lets go of its care. Then a night came of wind, and the valley was bells, And the ridge ran a mane of gold; And in from the dark, over leagues of the fells, Came the beetle whose breast can behold — Who sees with her breast! — and she flew to the pyre To carve out her cradles in coffins of fire. And at dawn — it was grey — came a sound like small clocks: The tick... and the tick... of the crown; Every casket unclasping its scale-lidded locks And the seed coming spirally down — One wing to a child — to the mineral bed That the burning had swept of its green, Where never a rival may lift up a head And the sun is the whole of the scene. And the boy, with the ash going sweet on his tongue, Hears the tick — and the tick — of the crown, Till the caskets are empty, the last seed is flung, And the vault of the wood is laid down; And the fireweed bides with its wick in the black — A cool second fire for the gown. And the green that will rise will be even of age — Every tree with one birthday: the burn — And they'll seal their first seed in its resinous cage And wait for the bridegroom's return: For the flame — for the flame — they were born of the flame, And they keep their whole hearts for the flame.

😈

It literally doesn’t matter who is the actor in an advertisement