Tummy tummy biggies, with not a lot to eat. They’ll swallow in the world, and darn it out to meat. Even when it’s ick, they can’t control their tastes, tummy tummy biggies, they live in outer space.
Silly, hidey, straws, they move so fast, you’ll bake. If you ever sense one, they’ll turn you into fakes. They break up all the biggies, and turn them into paste. Tummy tummy biggies, they always fall to waste.
All the little babies that come from mums and dads who’ve seen the silly straws, and know we’ve all been had, will try to hide like zeros, so nothing can be lost, but nothing can escape them, they have a different boss.
You’ll find that some are nice; it’s mostly a distraction – they’ll find that you are mean, it’s all a masked contraction. You’ll find that some are slow, and fear all interaction; you’ll find that some are fast, and prone to holey mass extraction. You’ll find that some are small and full of crazy interactions, but every guard-damned one you see will always kill with fashion.
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