Wash: Well, I wash my hands of it. It's a hopeless case. I'll read a nice poem at the funeral. Something with imagery. Zoe: You could lock the door and keep the power-hungry maniac at bay. Wash: Oh, no, I'm starting to like this poetry idea now. Here lies my beloved Zoe, my autumn flower, somewhat less attractive now she's all corpsified and gross...

'Shindig'


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