On the brown harvest tree Droops the red cherry.

Some readers do not care overmuch for poetry.

They didn't tell us until we went to the cook tent, where they sleep, at 9 pm for some hot water and found them lying on the stone floor wrapped up in a blanket.

Davey Freakin' Crockett couldn't have hit the bull's eye better than I did. Talk about your Deadeye Dicks.