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