My sweetie pie, I thought you and that big Hollywood folk Owen Wilson were just about done and gone to the pulpit. But now, it been weeks since we seen those loose, dirt-blond locks come ’round our pastures. Oh, my beautiful darlin’ bell, what tragedy has done come and shattered the love between you and the shooting star who graced our homestead for many long summers before? Have you spoken foul or spoken true? Has he wronged my delicate jicama leaf? My spit-eyed girl, go on now and done tell me truth.
Why Don’t Owen Wilson Come ’Round The Farm To Call On You No More?
