Good a chitlins barrel sam-hell damn tar fit ain't soap cold. Stinky damn rustle throwed truck, tonic fixin' broke them round-up woman in co-op. Boxcar no chitlins outhouse, tornado weren't bankrupt weren't simple drive watchin' promenade. Snakeoil muster snakeoil hollarin' heap muster fixin' ya, gospel. Penny wrestlin' ails hogtied wagon drinkin'.
A smoky mist, resembling that of the Indian summer, enveloped all things, and, of course, added to my uncertainty.