MW2 GHOST - Way Down We Go 

Lol shared 🤣 🐕

+

Bien dicho

Yes he dederve it

Actually medal needs him🗿

My friend....you couldn't have said it any better.....ghost inspired you and you inspired me.thankyou.

ikr its crazy, how marvel has degraded since endgame

Ugh it's not.

What's that gane

@@dennispylarinos1167 call of duty

Bro don't go there🤣 marvel stans will start crying..

Yeah because Activision itself is gonna kill the franchise, Did you get the MW3? If no, its not worth your money. The graphics sucks man.

Dancing spider man kid has taken care of this

The games already fucking died lmao

@@sonanerikov1well then just suggest them to skip the mwiii 2023 part lol

Bro whats ur plan telling people not forget modern warfare 2 "remastered".

Its Better than movies

@@AlagamiNOshanks fax

no

@@felixgriffiths1524 yes

What's movie name ?

Or event better like 5 animated movies across the call of duty best campaigns and introduce also a Simon Ghost Riley to his beginning and why he wears a mask.

even better, more campaign missions. was too short for me

Bro's spitting Faxx

It would be better but sad at the end of it😢

​@@Roetjanmw22 was way to short fr

Yeah they should

E7477

The ghost 🗿

😅Yes

Hi

@@Combustion120 hlw

I subscribed

I subscribed! You deserve it

Also, is it just me or would 1:45 make a dope ass cover art?

@@xTheJoker97xI just did, I took a screenshot and edited to look even cooler

​@@xTheJoker97xhonestly 70% of the video you can skip to and get some cool picture

Thanks. :)

oscARS FOR ACTing bro stop this shit

​@@Algerino-wr4uqit's not a movie. It a game. Call Of Duty MW2 2022

🥵

This one made my day

I love the ghost skin from call of duty

Touch Grass

Una canción legendaria y más el video con las leyenda de call of duty ufffff ❤💯

In Britain’s Isle, no matter where, An ancient pile of buildings stands: The Huntingdons and Hattons there Employ’d the power of Fairy hands To raise the ceiling’s fretted height, Each pannel in achievements cloathing, Rich windows that exclude the light, And passages, that lead to nothing. Full oft within the spacious walls, When he had fifty winters o’er him, My grave Lord-Keeper1 led the Brawls; The Seal, and Maces, danc’d before him. His bushy beard, and shoe-strings green, His high-crown’d hat, and satin-doublet, Mov’d the stout heart of England’s Queen, Tho’ Pope and Spaniard could not trouble it. What, in the very first beginning! Shame of the versifying tribe! Your Hist’ry whither are you spinning? Can you do nothing but describe? A House there is, (and that’s enough) From whence one fatal morning issues A brace of Warriors, not in buff, But rustling in their silks and tissues. The first came cap-a-pee from France Her conqu’ring destiny fulfilling, Whom meaner beauties eye askance, And vainly ape her art of killing. The other Amazon kind heaven Had armed with spirit, wit, and satire: But COBHAM had the polish given And tip’d her arrows with good-nature. To celebrate her eyes, her air - Coarse panegyricks would but teaze her. Melissa is her Nom de Guerre. Alas, who would not wish to please her! With bonnet blue and capucine, And aprons long they hid their armour, And veil’d their weapons bright and keen In pity to the country-farmer. Fame, in the shape of Mr. Purt, (By this time all the parish know it) Had told, that thereabouts there lurk’d A wicked Imp they call a Poet, Who prowl’d the country far and near, Bewitch’d the children of the peasants, Dried up the cows, and lam’d the deer, And suck’d the eggs and kill’d the pheasants. My Lady heard their joint petition, Swore by her coronet and ermine, She’d issue out her high commission To rid the manour of such vermin. The Heroines undertook the task, Thro’ lanes unknown, o’er stiles they ventur’d, Rap’d at the door nor stay’d to ask, But bounce into the parlour enter’d. The trembling family they daunt, They flirt, they sing, they laugh, they tattle, Rummage his Mother, pinch his Aunt, And up stairs in a whirlwind rattle. Each hole and cupboard they explore, Each creek and cranny of his chamber, Run hurry-skurry round the floor, And o’er the bed and tester clamber, Into the Drawers and China pry, Papers and books, a huge Imbroglio! Under a tea-cup he might lie, Or creased, like dogs-ears, in a folio. On the first marching of the troops The Muses, hopeless of his pardon, Convey’d him underneath their hoops To a small closet in the garden. So Rumour says. (Who will, believe.) But that they left the door a-jarr, Where, safe and laughing in his sleeve, He heard the distant din of war. Short was his joy. He little knew The power of Magick was no fable. Out of the window, whisk, they flew, But left a spell upon the table. The words too eager to unriddle, The poet felt a strange disorder: Transparent birdlime form’d the middle, And chains invisible the border. So cunning was the Apparatus, The powerful pothooks did so move him, That, will he, nill he, to the Great-house He went, as if the Devil drove him. Yet on his way (no sign of grace, For folks in fear are apt to pray) To Phoebus he prefer’d his case, And begged his aid that dreadful day. The Godhead would have back’d his quarrel, But, with a blush on recollection, Own’d that his quiver and his laurel ’Gainst four such eyes were no protection. The Court was sate, the Culprit there, Forth from their gloomy mansions creeping The Lady Janes and Joans repair, And from the gallery stand peeping: Such as in silence of the night Come (sweep) along some winding entry (Styack2 has often seen the sight) Or at the chappel-door stand sentry; In peaked hoods and mantles tarnish’d, Sour visages, enough to scare ye, High dames of honour once, that garnish’d The drawing-room of fierce Queen Mary. The Peeress comes. The Audience stare, And doff their hats with due submission: She curtsies, as she takes her chair, To all the people of condition. The bard with many an artful fib, Had in imagination fenc’d him, Disproved the arguments of Squib,3 And all that Groom4 could urge against him. But soon his rhetorick forsook him, When he the solemn hall had seen; A sudden fit of ague shook him, He stood as mute as poor Macleane.5 Yet something he was heard to mutter, ‘‘How in the park beneath an old-tree (Without design to hurt the butter, Or any malice to the poultry,) ‘‘He once or twice had pen’d a sonnet; Yet hop’d that he might save his bacon: Numbers would give their oaths upon it, He ne’er was for a conj’rer taken.’’ The ghostly Prudes with hagged face Already had condemn’d the sinner. My Lady rose, and with a grace - She smiled, and bid him come to dinner. ‘‘Jesu-Maria! Madam Bridget, Why, what can the Viscountess mean?’’ (Cried the square Hoods in woeful fidget) ‘‘The times are altered quite and clean! ‘‘Decorum’s turned to mere civility; Her air and all her manners show it. Commend me to her affability! Speak to a Commoner and Poet!’’ [Here 500 Stanzas are lost.] And so God save our noble King, And guard us from long-winded Lubbers, That to eternity would sing, And keep my Lady from her Rubbers. Gray’s own notes: 1. Hatton, prefer’d by Queen Elizabeth for his graceful Person and fine Dancing. 2. The House-Keeper. 3. Groom of the Chambers. 4. The Steward. 5. A famous Highwayman hang’d the week before. (The Works of Thomas Gray in Prose and Verse, edited by Edmund Gosse, 4 vols. London, Macmillan and Co., 1912. Vol 1, p 81.) * * *@@who_knows...

In Britain’s Isle, no matter where, An ancient pile of buildings stands: The Huntingdons and Hattons there Employ’d the power of Fairy hands To raise the ceiling’s fretted height, Each pannel in achievements cloathing, Rich windows that exclude the light, And passages, that lead to nothing. Full oft within the spacious walls, When he had fifty winters o’er him, My grave Lord-Keeper1 led the Brawls; The Seal, and Maces, danc’d before him. His bushy beard, and shoe-strings green, His high-crown’d hat, and satin-doublet, Mov’d the stout heart of England’s Queen, Tho’ Pope and Spaniard could not trouble it. What, in the very first beginning! Shame of the versifying tribe! Your Hist’ry whither are you spinning? Can you do nothing but describe? A House there is, (and that’s enough) From whence one fatal morning issues A brace of Warriors, not in buff, But rustling in their silks and tissues. The first came cap-a-pee from France Her conqu’ring destiny fulfilling, Whom meaner beauties eye askance, And vainly ape her art of killing. The other Amazon kind heaven Had armed with spirit, wit, and satire: But COBHAM had the polish given And tip’d her arrows with good-nature. To celebrate her eyes, her air - Coarse panegyricks would but teaze her. Melissa is her Nom de Guerre. Alas, who would not wish to please her! With bonnet blue and capucine, And aprons long they hid their armour, And veil’d their weapons bright and keen In pity to the country-farmer. Fame, in the shape of Mr. Purt, (By this time all the parish know it) Had told, that thereabouts there lurk’d A wicked Imp they call a Poet, Who prowl’d the country far and near, Bewitch’d the children of the peasants, Dried up the cows, and lam’d the deer, And suck’d the eggs and kill’d the pheasants. My Lady heard their joint petition, Swore by her coronet and ermine, She’d issue out her high commission To rid the manour of such vermin. The Heroines undertook the task, Thro’ lanes unknown, o’er stiles they ventur’d, Rap’d at the door nor stay’d to ask, But bounce into the parlour enter’d. The trembling family they daunt, They flirt, they sing, they laugh, they tattle, Rummage his Mother, pinch his Aunt, And up stairs in a whirlwind rattle. Each hole and cupboard they explore, Each creek and cranny of his chamber, Run hurry-skurry round the floor, And o’er the bed and tester clamber, Into the Drawers and China pry, Papers and books, a huge Imbroglio! Under a tea-cup he might lie, Or creased, like dogs-ears, in a folio. On the first marching of the troops The Muses, hopeless of his pardon, Convey’d him underneath their hoops To a small closet in the garden. So Rumour says. (Who will, believe.) But that they left the door a-jarr, Where, safe and laughing in his sleeve, He heard the distant din of war. Short was his joy. He little knew The power of Magick was no fable. Out of the window, whisk, they flew, But left a spell upon the table. The words too eager to unriddle, The poet felt a strange disorder: Transparent birdlime form’d the middle, And chains invisible the border. So cunning was the Apparatus, The powerful pothooks did so move him, That, will he, nill he, to the Great-house He went, as if the Devil drove him. Yet on his way (no sign of grace, For folks in fear are apt to pray) To Phoebus he prefer’d his case, And begged his aid that dreadful day. The Godhead would have back’d his quarrel, But, with a blush on recollection, Own’d that his quiver and his laurel ’Gainst four such eyes were no protection. The Court was sate, the Culprit there, Forth from their gloomy mansions creeping The Lady Janes and Joans repair, And from the gallery stand peeping: Such as in silence of the night Come (sweep) along some winding entry (Styack2 has often seen the sight) Or at the chappel-door stand sentry; In peaked hoods and mantles tarnish’d, Sour visages, enough to scare ye, High dames of honour once, that garnish’d The drawing-room of fierce Queen Mary. The Peeress comes. The Audience stare, And doff their hats with due submission: She curtsies, as she takes her chair, To all the people of condition. The bard with many an artful fib, Had in imagination fenc’d him, Disproved the arguments of Squib,3 And all that Groom4 could urge against him. But soon his rhetorick forsook him, When he the solemn hall had seen; A sudden fit of ague shook him, He stood as mute as poor Macleane.5 Yet something he was heard to mutter, ‘‘How in the park beneath an old-tree (Without design to hurt the butter, Or any malice to the poultry,) ‘‘He once or twice had pen’d a sonnet; Yet hop’d that he might save his bacon: Numbers would give their oaths upon it, He ne’er was for a conj’rer taken.’’ The ghostly Prudes with hagged face Already had condemn’d the sinner. My Lady rose, and with a grace - She smiled, and bid him come to dinner. ‘‘Jesu-Maria! Madam Bridget, Why, what can the Viscountess mean?’’ (Cried the square Hoods in woeful fidget) ‘‘The times are altered quite and clean! ‘‘Decorum’s turned to mere civility; Her air and all her manners show it. Commend me to her affability! Speak to a Commoner and Poet!’’ [Here 500 Stanzas are lost.] And so God save our noble King, And guard us from long-winded Lubbers, That to eternity would sing, And keep my Lady from her Rubbers. Gray’s own notes: 1. Hatton, prefer’d by Queen Elizabeth for his graceful Person and fine Dancing. 2. The House-Keeper. 3. Groom of the Chambers. 4. The Steward. 5. A famous Highwayman hang’d the week before. (The Works of Thomas Gray in Prose and Verse, edited by Edmund Gosse, 4 vols. London, Macmillan and Co., 1912. Vol 1, p 81.) * * *@@who_knows...

Are you of indian ancestory

Call of Duty is the best game ever especially MW series

😢😢

Again😢

How tf can you relate to a trained military operative... one of the baddest men alive(previously alive)

Don't feel shame about whatever motivates you, it ain't cringe if it's for your betterment

@@hunterw1345 you think it's bad that some elite soldier is motivating me ??? It has nothing to do with fighting it's just the things he say's and how he just is all the look on hes face and everything he is dark character depressed but so em i.

@@illustrious3292 bros cringy

ONG💀☠️