Toneti rebuznó:Ni la viola ni nada. Solo se lleva una bolsa y no se que mas.
Violarla hubiera sido de mala persona.
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Toneti rebuznó:Ni la viola ni nada. Solo se lleva una bolsa y no se que mas.
Andrei Chikatilo rebuznó:
Viktor Frankel rebuznó:Tomen hijos de la paja, aquí les dejo este tranny. Espero que se pudran en 2011.
YouTube - Hot 40 Min. Workout - Part 2
Vince Masuka rebuznó:Aunque fuera un tranny, melofo con triple mortal y tirabuzón...
La veo, y subo avodkaenvena rebuznó:Posiblemente una de las mejores canciones militares que he escuchado
YouTube - Kelly's Irish Brigade
Oh, not now for songs of a nation's wrongs,
not the groans of starving labor;
Let the rifle ring and the bullet sing
to the clash of the flashing sabre!
There are Irish ranks on the tented banks
of Columbia's guarded ocean;
And an iron clank from flank to flank
tells of armed men in motion.
And frank souls there clear true and bare
To all, as the steel beside them,
Can love or hate withe the strength of fate,
Till the grave of the valiant hide them.
Each seems to be mailed Ard Righ,
whose sword's avenging glory
Must light the fight and smite for right,
Like Brian's in olden story.
With pale affright and panic flight
Shall dastard Yankees base and hollow,
Hear a Celtic race, from their battle place,
Charge to the shout of "Faugh-a-ballaugh!"
By the sould above, by the land we love
Her tears bleeding patience
The sledge is wrought that shall smash to naught
The brazen liar of nations.
The Irish green shall again be seen
as our Irish fathers bore it,
A burning wind from the South behind,
and the Yankee rout before it!
O'Neil's red hand shall purge the land-
Rain a fire on men and cattle,
Till the Lincoln snakes in their own cold lakes
Plunge from the blaze of battle.
The knaves that rest on Columbia's breast,
and the voice of true men stifle;
we'll exorcise from the rescued prize-
Our talisman, the rifle;
For a tyrant's life a bowie knife!-
Of Union knot dissolvers,
The best we ken are stalwart men,
Columbiads and revolvers!
Whoe'er shall march by triumphal arch
Whoe'er may swell the slaughter,
Our drums shall roll from the Capitol
O'er Potomac's fateful water!
Rise, bleeding ghosts, to the Lord of Hosts
For judgement final and solemn;
Your fanatic horde to the edge of the sword
Is doomed line, square, and column!
Oh Polly Oh Polly its for your sake alone,
I have left my old Father, my Country, my home
I have left my old Mother to weep and to mourn
I am a rebel soldier, and far from my home
The grape shot and musket and the cannons lumber lie
Its many a mangled body the blanket for the shroud
Its many a mangled body left on the fields alone
I am a rebel soldier and far from my home
Here is a good old cup of brandy and a glass of wine
You can drink to your true love and I will drink to mine
You can drink to your true love and I will lament and moan
I am a rebel soldier and far from my home
I will build me a castle on some green mountain high
Where I can see Polly when she is passing by
Where I can see Polly and help her to mourn
I am a rebel soldier and far from my home
Hum out
O, I'm a good old Rebel,
Now that's just what I am,
For this "Fair Land of Freedom"
I do not care at all;
I'm glad I fit against it --
I only wish we'd won,
And I don't want no pardon
For anything I done.
I hates the Constitution,
This Great Republic too,
I hates the Freedman's Buro,
In uniforms of blue;
I hates the nasty eagle,
With all his brags and fuss,
The lyin', thievin' Yankees,
I hates 'em wuss and wuss.
I hates the Yankee nation
And everything they do,
I hates the Declaration
Of Independence too;
I hates the glorious Union --
'Tis dripping with our blood --
I hates their striped banner,
I fit it all I could.
I followed old mass' Robert
For four year, near about,
Got wounded in three places
And starved at Pint Lookout;
I cotch the rheumatism
A campin' in the snow,
But I killed a chance of Yankees,
I'd like to kill some mo'.
Three hundred thousand Yankees
Is stiff in Southern dust;
We got three hundred thousand
Before they conquered us;
They died of Southern fever
And Southern steel and shot,
I wish they was three million
Instead of what we got.
I can't take up my musket
And fight 'em now no more,
But I ain't going to love 'em,
Now that is sarten sure;
And I don't want no pardon
For what I was and am,
I won't be reconstructed
And I don't care a damn.
¿Eres el de tu afoto?
¿Qué tal la chupa Sun?
Morzhilla rebuznó:
Vince Masuka rebuznó:Quién cojones es Sun?
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