With the fowl out of season and plumage to rough
All of the oompth lost to Labor Day is coming to the cuff
Well I've been tampering with foothills, ringing-up smoke
'Cause there'll be hoops to jump through anyways
Empty rooms and belly-ups
No husing can be heard through clapboards
But, in truth, Shasta gravitates to the devastating stuff
Born uncalibrated to magnetic north
Never split, just indifferent... never backward, never forth
Lop-ridden victims squarely retract
To the root of the goldenrod, to the unelectrified jack
