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