Video wird geladen...

Video konnte nicht geladen werden

Zur Startseite

Lazy Sunday.

Muscl_Dad's profile picture

Thom Karlton | Muscle Dad

9,389 subscribers

99,667 Aufrufe • vor 1 Jahr •via X (Twitter)

LIVE

Anya Rossi• Live Now

Private livecam show

0 Kommentare

Keine Kommentare verfügbar

Kommentare vom Original-Post werden hier angezeigt

Ähnliche Videos

Lazy sunday
0:15

Lazy sunday

Mezzo, Florida July 7-30

24,379 Aufrufe • vor 2 Monaten

lazy sunday
0:15

lazy sunday

Lemon Pepper Papi 🐓

26,737 Aufrufe • vor 7 Monaten

lazy sunday 🙃
0:11

lazy sunday 🙃

Patr1ck S.

18,449 Aufrufe • vor 1 Jahr

lazy sunday #OF
0:01

lazy sunday #OF

Madison Wilhelm

10,978 Aufrufe • vor 1 Jahr

Lazy sunday… 🍑✨
0:15

Sensitive content

Lazy sunday… 🍑✨

✨Sweet Juanita Ts✨

87,111 Aufrufe • vor 2 Jahren

Lazy Sunday for Chunk.
0:12

Lazy Sunday for Chunk.

explore.org

19,660 Aufrufe • vor 10 Monaten

Lazy Sunday with АЛЕКС 🥰😘
0:14

Lazy Sunday with АЛЕКС 🥰😘

Alex 🍼🦦

65,518 Aufrufe • vor 8 Monaten

Lazy Sunday aftern🍊🍊n
0:12

Lazy Sunday aftern🍊🍊n

Pushpa Snigdha🦢

16,658 Aufrufe • vor 14 Tagen

Lazy Sunday for Goddess Bojana! Femdom Findom
0:15

Sensitive content

Lazy Sunday for Goddess Bojana! Femdom Findom

Goddess Bojana

17,254 Aufrufe • vor 2 Jahren

What’s your idea of the perfect lazy Sunday?
0:11

What’s your idea of the perfect lazy Sunday?

Kelly Monroe

65,571 Aufrufe • vor 8 Monaten

What’s your idea of the perfect lazy Sunday?
0:10

What’s your idea of the perfect lazy Sunday?

Kelly Monroe

20,644 Aufrufe • vor 4 Monaten

Lazy, Hot Sunday… What are you up to?
0:18

Lazy, Hot Sunday… What are you up to?

Liam Monroe

11,658 Aufrufe • vor 27 Tagen

Hope you're having a lovely and lazy Sunday! 😊
0:15

Hope you're having a lovely and lazy Sunday! 😊

IDF Babes 🇮🇱

32,260 Aufrufe • vor 11 Monaten

Lazy Sunday 😎😌 #sundayreset #weekends #dayoffvibes #fypp #fypシ゚
0:11

Lazy Sunday 😎😌 #sundayreset #weekends #dayoffvibes #fypp #fypシ゚

Ariana Navarrete 💕

13,025 Aufrufe • vor 1 Jahr

What would you do with these soles on a lazy Sunday afternoon?🦶🏼🤍
0:10

Sensitive content

What would you do with these soles on a lazy Sunday afternoon?🦶🏼🤍

Miss Marissa

34,638 Aufrufe • vor 1 Jahr

Lazy Sole Sunday in bed, rubbing my soft feet together while you stare and drool🙂‍↕️
0:10

Lazy Sole Sunday in bed, rubbing my soft feet together while you stare and drool🙂‍↕️

Southern Soles✨🩷

32,490 Aufrufe • vor 1 Jahr

Sunday...lazy and tired after getting spoiled last night...but still horny enough to get tired this morning too...Doors are open. Come lets get tired together on my bed 🫦
0:12

Sensitive content

Sunday...lazy and tired after getting spoiled last night...but still horny enough to get tired this morning too...Doors are open. Come lets get tired together on my bed 🫦

Yamini Reddy

179,295 Aufrufe • vor 7 Monaten

How about spending your lazy Sunday with me 😘The time is now while my Fanvue page is discounted (30% off)!!! Updates daily...don't miss out 😝💋💋💋#Hanes vintage RHT nylons #nylonfetish #satinslip #nylonmodel #mature #GILF
0:15

Sensitive content

How about spending your lazy Sunday with me 😘The time is now while my Fanvue page is discounted (30% off)!!! Updates daily...don't miss out 😝💋💋💋#Hanes vintage RHT nylons #nylonfetish #satinslip #nylonmodel #mature #GILF

Roni Ford

14,666 Aufrufe • vor 1 Jahr

Strength work for Leadville 100 💪 Over the years, I have felt judged by the research--my strength routines were limited to a few minutes at a time, while everyone was screaming at me from their Abstracts that I needed to do way more. I noticed two big problems whenever I committed to more resistance training: 1. I'd carry around soreness even after the initial adaptation window, likely corresponding to high CK levels and some background inflammation. Either way, it would reduce running economy on subsequent running training days, and every training day counts. Split squats are the ultimate offender--an exercise that I know I should be doing, but I can't without feeling like Forrest Gump after he was shot in the butt. 2. I just wouldn't do it. Oops. With lots of guessing and testing, I developed this routine, which I'd do after my easy run on Sunday (before a Monday rest day), and sometimes after my workout on Wednesday (if I felt like it): 1. Three Minute Mountain Legs, working up to 100 single-leg step-ups (I think step-ups in particular are a magic exercise for running uphill. But remember, magic is not equal to science): 2. Back squats, 2 sets of 10 (135 pounds for me, which I make look like 800 pounds in this video. The 17-year old me who played football would laugh so hard) 3. Back extensions, 2 sets of 30, engaging glutes and hamstrings 4. Single-leg calf raises, 1 set of 100 on each leg, with a 35 pound dumbbell 5. Every day, I do the 2-minute Core Snack routine 1-3 times. My core strength is one of my best attributes for ultras, and I can do the Core Snack with our toddler Leo. I also do daily band work before running (bandz a make me dance): That's it! I also foam roll and stretch daily (don't tell the researchers, but I am a tight boi and as soon as I stop stretching, I get hurt). The lesson is not to do this particular routine, but that strength training for runners can be based on individual needs. And I personally think that routines should be short and efficient for both performance (limiting breakdown) and adherence (limiting me from being a lazy little punk). Find what works for you, do it 1-2 times per week year round (on top of some daily supportive work), and don't feel the need to pursue progressive overload. It's not about getting stronger and stronger (unless you're into that sort of thing for its own sake, which I think will sacrifice some running growth). It's about supporting performance and health 🧡
0:18

Strength work for Leadville 100 💪 Over the years, I have felt judged by the research--my strength routines were limited to a few minutes at a time, while everyone was screaming at me from their Abstracts that I needed to do way more. I noticed two big problems whenever I committed to more resistance training: 1. I'd carry around soreness even after the initial adaptation window, likely corresponding to high CK levels and some background inflammation. Either way, it would reduce running economy on subsequent running training days, and every training day counts. Split squats are the ultimate offender--an exercise that I know I should be doing, but I can't without feeling like Forrest Gump after he was shot in the butt. 2. I just wouldn't do it. Oops. With lots of guessing and testing, I developed this routine, which I'd do after my easy run on Sunday (before a Monday rest day), and sometimes after my workout on Wednesday (if I felt like it): 1. Three Minute Mountain Legs, working up to 100 single-leg step-ups (I think step-ups in particular are a magic exercise for running uphill. But remember, magic is not equal to science): 2. Back squats, 2 sets of 10 (135 pounds for me, which I make look like 800 pounds in this video. The 17-year old me who played football would laugh so hard) 3. Back extensions, 2 sets of 30, engaging glutes and hamstrings 4. Single-leg calf raises, 1 set of 100 on each leg, with a 35 pound dumbbell 5. Every day, I do the 2-minute Core Snack routine 1-3 times. My core strength is one of my best attributes for ultras, and I can do the Core Snack with our toddler Leo. I also do daily band work before running (bandz a make me dance): That's it! I also foam roll and stretch daily (don't tell the researchers, but I am a tight boi and as soon as I stop stretching, I get hurt). The lesson is not to do this particular routine, but that strength training for runners can be based on individual needs. And I personally think that routines should be short and efficient for both performance (limiting breakdown) and adherence (limiting me from being a lazy little punk). Find what works for you, do it 1-2 times per week year round (on top of some daily supportive work), and don't feel the need to pursue progressive overload. It's not about getting stronger and stronger (unless you're into that sort of thing for its own sake, which I think will sacrifice some running growth). It's about supporting performance and health 🧡

David Roche

66,383 Aufrufe • vor 1 Jahr

Lads. Sit down and give me your ear a while, for I have watched from the water long enough and the hour is upon us whether we have the stomach for it or not. You remember. Or your fathers told you, or their fathers did, and the knowledge of it is in the marrow of you whether you drew breath in those days or not. The moors in the grey hour before dawn. Wet heather soft under the boot. Peat smoke rising from a low stone chimney a mile out across the bog, thin as a prayer. A sky the colour of a gun barrel and the gulls lamenting above the headland. The smell of turf burning, and wet wool, and the ferrous tang of the sea when the wind swung around out of the Atlantic and put the taste of iron on your tongue. A man could walk that land and know every stone of it was his by inheritance, because his grandfather had broken his back upon it, and his grandfather before him, back through the generations until you reach men whose names are lost and whose bones are in the soil you are standing on. The potato fields. God be good to us, the potato fields. Lazy beds cut straight as a gunwale, the ridges black and shining after a night of rain, women bent double with creels lashed to their backs and the children at their skirts, drawing the crop up by the hand for there was never any other means devised nor wanted. Hands split open at the knuckles and never entirely healed in this life. Hunger within living memory. Grandmothers who had seen the blight with their own eyes and would not speak of it from the year of it until the day they were laid down, save that a crust was kept always on the dresser which no soul in that house was permitted to touch. Not ever. Not for any reason under heaven. And the chimney sweeps. Wee lads no heavier than a sack of meal, black to the bone with soot, their lungs ruined before they were old enough to marry and old men entirely by thirty. Up the flues at first light, the skin worn off them by the brick, eyes crimson at the rim, breathing the black in with every draw of air. And the coal miners a half mile beneath our feet, down in the wet dark, the roof of the world muttering over their heads, the canary gone silent, a man's whole existence measured out in the shilling a ton and the dust he carried home in his chest to cough up of a Sunday morning into a rag. Fathers who descended and were never hauled up again. Widows at the pit head with the shawl drawn over the head and no tears remaining in them for they had spent those long ago. That was the tariff paid to keep the hearth lit. That was the reckoning of being warm in winter in the Ireland that was. And after the labouring week, Friday evening, and a man had earned the peace of what followed. Home first. Peeled the day off him in the yard. A shower of ice cold moor river water out of a tin bucket punctured with holes, hung on a nail on the gable wall, the water running clean down the back of him and carrying the week's dust and sweat away into the drain. Scrubbed till the skin was pink beneath the grime. Clean shirt laid out by the wife. The hair combed down with a drop of water. Then, and only then, did a man set himself to the table. A meat pie from the baker, tenpence if he was known to you, a shilling and no change if he was not, put down upon a proper plate. Fish and chips for threepence, the salt and vinegar soaked through the newspaper, but carried home and ate slowly at your own table with your people around you, not walked with through the streets like some vagrant tinker off the road. A man ate as a man who had earned his portion, for he had. And later, with the dishes cleared and the kettle set, down the road to the tavern. Low beams black with a century of smoke. A turf fire muttering in the grate. The air thick with pipe smoke and the vapour of wet overcoats steaming themselves dry on the backs of chairs. A pint of stout, cold and black as a cove at midnight, elevenpence laid down on the counter, a head on it thick enough to strike a match upon. A second one because you had it coming to you and no man present would dispute it. A fiddle starting up in the corner of its own accord. The old men in the snug who remembered matters the history books had long since mislaid. A song before the bolt was thrown on the door. The walk home beneath a firmament crowded with stars, the stout warm in the gut of you, the week behind you, and your own door waiting with the latch unlocked for you had no enemies in that parish. That was the country. That was the covenant. Honest labour, plain food, a cold wash, a hot meal, a cold pint, your own tongue in your own mouth, your own soil beneath your boots, and no man standing above you save the Almighty Himself. Now regard her. Regard her close. The fields disposed of to men who have never set foot upon them and never shall. The harbours signed away by the stroke of a pen in a room you were not admitted to, and foreign keels dragging out of our waters the living that sustained this island for a thousand years, while our own boats rot at their moorings for want of a quota. The tradesmen undercut by imported labour and imported goods. The shops shuttered along every main street from Donegal to Cork. The young ones scattered to London and Sydney and Boston and the Gulf because there is nothing remaining for them beneath their own roof. And the entirety of this rotten arrangement dressed up in the soft mannerly language of progress by men in towers of glass who could not tell a lazy bed from a grave, nor a trawler from a tugboat, nor an honest day's work from a pension plan. And now they arrive with the next imposition. A digital identity. A number assigned to each soul. A card required to buy your bread. A code required to draw your own earnings out of your own account. A file kept on every man, woman and child from the cradle forward. Permission asked to move. Permission asked to speak. Permission asked to earn. A levy upon every breath drawn and a regulation upon every step taken. No. And no again. And no for a third time so there is no misunderstanding of it. We do not require your digital identity. We did not request it. We did not vote upon it. We do not consent to it. We do not need your permission to exist upon the soil our forefathers are buried in. We are a free people. We have carried ourselves this far upon our own two backs. Through famine and empire and civil war and black lung and blight and the emigrant ship out of Cobh, we have come this distance under our own steam, and the arrangement appears to be serving us well enough without your intervention. We buried our own. We fed our own. We raised our own roofs and took our own fish and reared our own children in our own tongue. We are in your debt for nothing. Not a signature. Not a biometric scan. Not a single solitary inch. And while we are upon the subject, let us speak plainly of the tax man, for he has gone too long without proper introduction. The tax collector and the tax man are the one article under two names, and the article is a parasite. There is no dressing it up finer than that. A man who produces nothing, who grows nothing, who catches nothing, who builds nothing, who mends nothing, who has never in his professional life lifted anything heavier than a pen, and who arrives at your door with the full apparatus of the state at his back to carry off the fruits of labour he did not perform. He is a middleman between your sweat and some scheme dreamt up in a committee room by his own kind, and the great majority of what he takes is consumed by the machinery of the taking itself before ever a penny of it reaches the road or the hospital or the schoolhouse he claims to be funding. And I will go further while I have the floor. Finance itself, the whole apparatus of it, money breeding money in the dark without a hand laid upon a tool or a spade turned in the earth, is slavery dressed in a good suit. It is the oldest swindle known to man and it has never been anything other. A man who produces nothing yet lives off the productive labour of others through the charging of interest upon money conjured out of nothing is a parasite of a rarer and more refined order than the tax man, but a parasite all the same, and between the pair of them they have the working people of this island bled white and lectured at for the pleasure. A man who will not work with his hands, nor with his back, nor with his mind at some honest problem of the real physical world, is no man that I recognise. He is a ledger entry in a suit. The country was not built by ledger entries. The country was built by farmers and fishermen and masons and smiths and sweeps and miners and shipwrights and midwives and mothers, and those are the people whose say should carry in her councils, and no other. Here is what I put to you. Let each man and woman of this island direct the first tenth of their earnings themselves, by their own judgement, to the purpose they see as worthy. The school down the road. The lifeboat station. The hospice. The widow on the corner. The roof of the chapel. The harbour wall. Whatever it may be. Let the people who earned the money decide where the money travels. You will find the roads mended and the ports dredged and the schools standing and the old ones cared for inside of five years, and done better and for less, because the hand that earned the coin knows the weight of it and will not squander it upon consultants and committees. And let us have done with the paper currency and the numbers in a screen that can be frozen at the whim of a clerk in a tower. Bring back the coin. Gold for the great transactions. Silver for the weekly commerce of a working life. Copper for the small change of the day. Metal you can bite. Metal you can weigh. Metal that cannot be conjured out of nothing by a keystroke, nor erased out of existence by another. Real money for real labour. A coin in the hand is a free man's wage. A number in a database is a collar around a free man's neck, and they are fitting that collar now while we stand arguing over the colour of it. Feel it in your gut. That is not nothing. That is your blood relating to you what your ears will not hear. That is every forebear who starved and fought and coughed the black dust into a rag and descended the shaft regardless, standing at your shoulder and saying no further. Not one more field. Not one more harbour. Not one more son upon a plane. Not one more free man converted into a number in a ledger for the convenience of the parasites. This is the hour. Make no error about it. Ireland is redeemed in this generation or she is lost beyond recovery, and every true son and daughter of her knows it in the marrow. There is no middle ground remaining. There is no waiting it out. There is standing now, upon your own two feet, or there is watching her go under the waves for the last and final time. So stand. Stand with your farmers. Stand with your fishermen. Stand with your tradesmen and your miners and your sweeps and your mothers and your old ones. Raise the tricolour. Speak the tongue. Walk the land. Hold the line in the streets of every town and city and do not break it, for they are relying upon you to break and to go home and to forget by Tuesday. She is calling her children home. Every stone of her, every breaker on her western shore, every acre of wet heather and every coal in every hearth the length and breadth of her is calling. Answer her. Take her back. Every field, every harbour, every last inch of her. Take her back, or lose her entirely. There is no third road open to us.
0:10

Lads. Sit down and give me your ear a while, for I have watched from the water long enough and the hour is upon us whether we have the stomach for it or not. You remember. Or your fathers told you, or their fathers did, and the knowledge of it is in the marrow of you whether you drew breath in those days or not. The moors in the grey hour before dawn. Wet heather soft under the boot. Peat smoke rising from a low stone chimney a mile out across the bog, thin as a prayer. A sky the colour of a gun barrel and the gulls lamenting above the headland. The smell of turf burning, and wet wool, and the ferrous tang of the sea when the wind swung around out of the Atlantic and put the taste of iron on your tongue. A man could walk that land and know every stone of it was his by inheritance, because his grandfather had broken his back upon it, and his grandfather before him, back through the generations until you reach men whose names are lost and whose bones are in the soil you are standing on. The potato fields. God be good to us, the potato fields. Lazy beds cut straight as a gunwale, the ridges black and shining after a night of rain, women bent double with creels lashed to their backs and the children at their skirts, drawing the crop up by the hand for there was never any other means devised nor wanted. Hands split open at the knuckles and never entirely healed in this life. Hunger within living memory. Grandmothers who had seen the blight with their own eyes and would not speak of it from the year of it until the day they were laid down, save that a crust was kept always on the dresser which no soul in that house was permitted to touch. Not ever. Not for any reason under heaven. And the chimney sweeps. Wee lads no heavier than a sack of meal, black to the bone with soot, their lungs ruined before they were old enough to marry and old men entirely by thirty. Up the flues at first light, the skin worn off them by the brick, eyes crimson at the rim, breathing the black in with every draw of air. And the coal miners a half mile beneath our feet, down in the wet dark, the roof of the world muttering over their heads, the canary gone silent, a man's whole existence measured out in the shilling a ton and the dust he carried home in his chest to cough up of a Sunday morning into a rag. Fathers who descended and were never hauled up again. Widows at the pit head with the shawl drawn over the head and no tears remaining in them for they had spent those long ago. That was the tariff paid to keep the hearth lit. That was the reckoning of being warm in winter in the Ireland that was. And after the labouring week, Friday evening, and a man had earned the peace of what followed. Home first. Peeled the day off him in the yard. A shower of ice cold moor river water out of a tin bucket punctured with holes, hung on a nail on the gable wall, the water running clean down the back of him and carrying the week's dust and sweat away into the drain. Scrubbed till the skin was pink beneath the grime. Clean shirt laid out by the wife. The hair combed down with a drop of water. Then, and only then, did a man set himself to the table. A meat pie from the baker, tenpence if he was known to you, a shilling and no change if he was not, put down upon a proper plate. Fish and chips for threepence, the salt and vinegar soaked through the newspaper, but carried home and ate slowly at your own table with your people around you, not walked with through the streets like some vagrant tinker off the road. A man ate as a man who had earned his portion, for he had. And later, with the dishes cleared and the kettle set, down the road to the tavern. Low beams black with a century of smoke. A turf fire muttering in the grate. The air thick with pipe smoke and the vapour of wet overcoats steaming themselves dry on the backs of chairs. A pint of stout, cold and black as a cove at midnight, elevenpence laid down on the counter, a head on it thick enough to strike a match upon. A second one because you had it coming to you and no man present would dispute it. A fiddle starting up in the corner of its own accord. The old men in the snug who remembered matters the history books had long since mislaid. A song before the bolt was thrown on the door. The walk home beneath a firmament crowded with stars, the stout warm in the gut of you, the week behind you, and your own door waiting with the latch unlocked for you had no enemies in that parish. That was the country. That was the covenant. Honest labour, plain food, a cold wash, a hot meal, a cold pint, your own tongue in your own mouth, your own soil beneath your boots, and no man standing above you save the Almighty Himself. Now regard her. Regard her close. The fields disposed of to men who have never set foot upon them and never shall. The harbours signed away by the stroke of a pen in a room you were not admitted to, and foreign keels dragging out of our waters the living that sustained this island for a thousand years, while our own boats rot at their moorings for want of a quota. The tradesmen undercut by imported labour and imported goods. The shops shuttered along every main street from Donegal to Cork. The young ones scattered to London and Sydney and Boston and the Gulf because there is nothing remaining for them beneath their own roof. And the entirety of this rotten arrangement dressed up in the soft mannerly language of progress by men in towers of glass who could not tell a lazy bed from a grave, nor a trawler from a tugboat, nor an honest day's work from a pension plan. And now they arrive with the next imposition. A digital identity. A number assigned to each soul. A card required to buy your bread. A code required to draw your own earnings out of your own account. A file kept on every man, woman and child from the cradle forward. Permission asked to move. Permission asked to speak. Permission asked to earn. A levy upon every breath drawn and a regulation upon every step taken. No. And no again. And no for a third time so there is no misunderstanding of it. We do not require your digital identity. We did not request it. We did not vote upon it. We do not consent to it. We do not need your permission to exist upon the soil our forefathers are buried in. We are a free people. We have carried ourselves this far upon our own two backs. Through famine and empire and civil war and black lung and blight and the emigrant ship out of Cobh, we have come this distance under our own steam, and the arrangement appears to be serving us well enough without your intervention. We buried our own. We fed our own. We raised our own roofs and took our own fish and reared our own children in our own tongue. We are in your debt for nothing. Not a signature. Not a biometric scan. Not a single solitary inch. And while we are upon the subject, let us speak plainly of the tax man, for he has gone too long without proper introduction. The tax collector and the tax man are the one article under two names, and the article is a parasite. There is no dressing it up finer than that. A man who produces nothing, who grows nothing, who catches nothing, who builds nothing, who mends nothing, who has never in his professional life lifted anything heavier than a pen, and who arrives at your door with the full apparatus of the state at his back to carry off the fruits of labour he did not perform. He is a middleman between your sweat and some scheme dreamt up in a committee room by his own kind, and the great majority of what he takes is consumed by the machinery of the taking itself before ever a penny of it reaches the road or the hospital or the schoolhouse he claims to be funding. And I will go further while I have the floor. Finance itself, the whole apparatus of it, money breeding money in the dark without a hand laid upon a tool or a spade turned in the earth, is slavery dressed in a good suit. It is the oldest swindle known to man and it has never been anything other. A man who produces nothing yet lives off the productive labour of others through the charging of interest upon money conjured out of nothing is a parasite of a rarer and more refined order than the tax man, but a parasite all the same, and between the pair of them they have the working people of this island bled white and lectured at for the pleasure. A man who will not work with his hands, nor with his back, nor with his mind at some honest problem of the real physical world, is no man that I recognise. He is a ledger entry in a suit. The country was not built by ledger entries. The country was built by farmers and fishermen and masons and smiths and sweeps and miners and shipwrights and midwives and mothers, and those are the people whose say should carry in her councils, and no other. Here is what I put to you. Let each man and woman of this island direct the first tenth of their earnings themselves, by their own judgement, to the purpose they see as worthy. The school down the road. The lifeboat station. The hospice. The widow on the corner. The roof of the chapel. The harbour wall. Whatever it may be. Let the people who earned the money decide where the money travels. You will find the roads mended and the ports dredged and the schools standing and the old ones cared for inside of five years, and done better and for less, because the hand that earned the coin knows the weight of it and will not squander it upon consultants and committees. And let us have done with the paper currency and the numbers in a screen that can be frozen at the whim of a clerk in a tower. Bring back the coin. Gold for the great transactions. Silver for the weekly commerce of a working life. Copper for the small change of the day. Metal you can bite. Metal you can weigh. Metal that cannot be conjured out of nothing by a keystroke, nor erased out of existence by another. Real money for real labour. A coin in the hand is a free man's wage. A number in a database is a collar around a free man's neck, and they are fitting that collar now while we stand arguing over the colour of it. Feel it in your gut. That is not nothing. That is your blood relating to you what your ears will not hear. That is every forebear who starved and fought and coughed the black dust into a rag and descended the shaft regardless, standing at your shoulder and saying no further. Not one more field. Not one more harbour. Not one more son upon a plane. Not one more free man converted into a number in a ledger for the convenience of the parasites. This is the hour. Make no error about it. Ireland is redeemed in this generation or she is lost beyond recovery, and every true son and daughter of her knows it in the marrow. There is no middle ground remaining. There is no waiting it out. There is standing now, upon your own two feet, or there is watching her go under the waves for the last and final time. So stand. Stand with your farmers. Stand with your fishermen. Stand with your tradesmen and your miners and your sweeps and your mothers and your old ones. Raise the tricolour. Speak the tongue. Walk the land. Hold the line in the streets of every town and city and do not break it, for they are relying upon you to break and to go home and to forget by Tuesday. She is calling her children home. Every stone of her, every breaker on her western shore, every acre of wet heather and every coal in every hearth the length and breadth of her is calling. Answer her. Take her back. Every field, every harbour, every last inch of her. Take her back, or lose her entirely. There is no third road open to us.

SiriusB

15,437 Aufrufe • vor 3 Monaten