With the fowl out of season and plumage to roughnAll of the oompth lost to Labor Day is coming to the cuffnnWell I've been tampering with foothills, ringing-up smoken'Cause there'll be hoops to jump through anywaysnEmpty rooms and belly-upsnnNo husing can be heard through clapboardsnBut, in truth, Shasta gravitates to the devastating stuffnnBorn uncalibrated to magnetic northnNever split, just indifferent... never backward, never forthnLop-ridden victims squarely retractnTo the root of the goldenrod, to the unelectrified jack