what was that song, unpretty, oh just as I there runs an ant up me, and the ants at the teahouse run & run interminably whilst the vibraphones tangle on, and their heads are bowed, the folks, unbeknownst to whom the ants run wild, as they trod in white refinement, sucking it up into their undoubtably porous little bodies. Their bodies actual, I find them now. the greedy metasomas sponging the sugar, making them everfast & radiant.
