...Betsy's knittling and wares are becoming less and less necessary despite the changeover in these foundering fathers' circumstances' and shit. Time is slowing down, and while she's whittling her fingers to the bone, there is less and less of the work to be done no matter how much of the flag remains to be stitched.
It seems "the times, they are-a... what they are," as Betsy heard some folksie singer a-singin' as he was a-strumming on his zither out in the cornfields to keep the slaves on the plantation from stabbing each other in the eye with their pitchforks so as to put them out of their miseries. Cutsie little niggers, at least they've got some spirit to get them through the day.
But the times, they really do kinda suck omg. At least Betsy has her blog to keep a-writin' in, no matter how much she wishes to leave this hovel, go out into the cornfields and play a fucking zither.
And Mr. Cranky-pants agrees:
Heaven is to Betsy what Betsy is to heaven, and Betsy wants stray this plantation and walk in front of a speeding locomotive.
she shouldn't-a ate the fucking pudding.
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