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'.
During a pedestrian tour last summer, through one or two of the river counties of New York, I found myself, as the day declined, somewhat embarrassed about the road I was pursuing.