Oh, man, River. That seems far too us dear a name for something made of merthan rage, a roiling red-blood river vein if chief among your traits is age you're a wildly convoluted sage is all the thing to call what rings the that vernal heart of Western lore. It brings us Brassie, myth-made kings. And the ponderance of bunting things. To challenge Titans come before! Oh, Demi, I wish to a try and have a lawn once more. And what a gust vitality in your wide-aorta stream. You must have had to oversee a chemical change of timber beam to iron brick and engine steam. Your underwisky waters lends the prideful sober sovereignty a faulty haloed temperance and wilt her self-short countenance. Yes, righteousness is vanity. But sports for imps, not elderly. So if there's a name for migrant mass of veteran frivolity, it snakes through seas of prairie grass and grows of summer sassafras. The name that flows as roguesle as wild waters, fast and free. It's your true name. Mississippi.