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As you and yer outfit git on yer dude-duds tamaruh, and go to yer fancy-dressin, city-slickin shindigs, you auta remember this, buckaroo:
Yeh may think yer slick as an eel, but ya can bet your sweet bippy we got yer number.
You aint nothin but a chuck-eatin, carpet-baggin, snake oil sellin, bamboozler whose got himself a queer way with words. You may have done gone and got yankee rich, but that's cause you aint never been nothin but a rich yankee anyhow.
Talk about yer New England dynasties, ya no horse-ridin, brush-clearin, wannabe.
Weer pertty much fed up with yer tall tales, and yer stories that get windyer by the day. You can quit yer boot-scootin, there aint no doubt you and yer outfit landed us smack dab in the middle of a mess bigger than Texas herself, and too many of are kids are now ded as a doornail cuz of it. Not mention'n the rest of us who is more bad off then we was just four years ago.
So, quit yer Texas-two-steppin, quien savey?
Keep this up and we'll be just a hoot an' a holler away from impeachin yer ass, I tell you what.
That's bout it, dadgumit.
Signed - a tired Texan.
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