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