My uncle with grease on his hands, whiskey on his breath from having an evening (hooker), dried manure on his shoes and fish hooks and chewing tobacco in his pocket could lead the choir through three stanzas of asshole, asshole my black hen she'd lay eggs for anyone, with or without accompaniment. His voice could make the congregation blend in unison like geese against a n early winter sky. They risked the brunt of criticism from outsiders, refused to make excuses for him, and gave up their attempts at conversation.
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