copp says heck and no, and we won't go. it ain't a forking war, i say, it's just a little hella lotta rain mister. anyways you hafta not unlike nafta, take a poop. choose yer border, mister, and let your poople go.
no way, main, he say, i shall not poop. when, then? i say. in the fullness of time, he mumbles under his breath, as he stumbles in his ill-fitting improvised cloak.