We are a commune of inquiring, skeptical, politically centrist, capitalist, anglophile, traditionalist New England Yankee humans, humanoids, and animals with many interests beyond and above politics. Each of us has had a high-school education (or GED), but all had ADD so didn't pay attention very well, especially the dogs. Each one of us does "try my best to be just like I am," and none of us enjoys working for others, including for Maggie, from whom we receive neither a nickel nor a dime. Freedom from nags, cranks, government, do-gooders, control-freaks and idiots is all that we ask for.
There's that word --onomatopoeia --the class of words that sound like the thing it means.
Like ''boom'' --where by building pressure behind pursed lips, to release in a blast as a 'b' sound, the blast makes the sound of a blast morphing quickly to the reverberations of an explosion heard in the elongated 'oo' sound imitating the echo reverb quieting down to a distant disappearring hum, sounded by the 'm'.
Anyhoo, this song is like an onamatopoeia --it sounds like a vision of a tumblin' tumbleweed --the long drawn out aimless erratic wind-driven journey from one side of your mind's eye to the other, against that inimitable big sky and endless empty territory.