Like a red state's Baptist fervor. Like a small town's unsolved murder. Some secret's are just best resting in the tombs of buried thought-slums. As for Texas: Donuts only (you cannot find bagels here). And I'll reserve my highest Hosannas for the communion song that served with light beer, and a chorus that inspires the score played in my myth-steeped years. “There's a hole you shant fall into,” sang the church choir's young male leeds, in our home team's jersey/robes sewn by our sisters, moms and nieces. This you gave us, although worthless, fed five decades' dormant hustle. In result, his life was rubbish. Celebrated? Yes, but rubbish.
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