Me and my bitches, we’re gonna ride the buggy through the ‘hood. It’s got yellow wheels, bra, it’s pimped out!
We’re gonna get crazy, y’all. Gonna hit the peace pipe. Gonna take the sewing circle outside.
We’ll be stitchin’ and bitchin’ -- without
our bonnets on (weather permitting. And if
God wills it so).
What up, Miles? You
want some Prissy? That’s right, you do –
it’s pre-ordained. I could give it to you
all right, Miles. Rough up your
ruff. Put the plum in your porridge. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Well tough turkey: I already got me a man,
and he’s a high roller (for Tristram is both a cooper and a wheelwright, as
well as exceptionally tall).
So back off, Miles.
Go home to your ho. No, not your
wife. Your hoe. For the harvest season
is upon us and it is a sin to be slothful.
Peace out, Miles (and peace be with you on this day of thanksgiving).
