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You know, people often ask us if there's a Mrs. Watch out for Fireballs.

I have to say, of course there is.

You're her, and you're as beautiful as the day we met.

God damn it, I have powder ganger blood in my pre-war casual outfit.

I wish someone would come along and fix this.

Well, there is a certain legend.

To the town of Good Springs Road a stranger one fine day

And though a sharp dresser he didn't have too much to say

Unlike all the natives, his clothes had anary rip. Because of all this neatness was the big iron on his hip.

Big iron on his hip. The guide on his head.

He'd flatten out his clothing, he'd steamed and pressed his shirt.

He used a bit of ox it clean to get rid of the dirt.

And when asked about his secret, he finally acquiesced.

Said he washed his laundry with a pinch of lemon zest

begun on his heels

but then came a messy boy, his pants full of crumbs of bread.

His manners faded long ago, his sense of fashion dead. Worst of all, his sins were socks, it is said.

Pinker than the sunrise, he had washed with Texas Reds.

...