Oh this is surely a season of Noël for the all-time annals, Polly Gillespie, when you’re lying hogtied in a shotgun shack somewhere in the Idaho Territory gettin fed up like a vealcalf by a toothlackin Cornish gunsman of extreme mental dubiety and the wind is pickin up outside and offerin its slow yearnsome tales—go sell ’em somewhere else, fucker, I’m stocked—and you’re waitin on your sworn lover to come and find you and the fuck where is that boy? Sombre moments yeah for sure but she was never one for wallowing.
