In between the weaving weaves on the lamp in Rasheed's Trailer, a breathing breathed a damp trail in the hole between the bowling alleys on 4th Street. The space elevator music was a bore in a beaker, I feel asleep on the floor like a tweaker, Hawking snored out his speaker. Keep an eye on my feet. Dribble dabble, I can pass the basket babble. Two points, three points, alley oops holy moly. Basketball would be mo doops with a goalie. Shaolin, I see ya frownin, imagine the score 4 to 4 Raid the fridge, mon. My Mongol empire lived on pigeons. I will only be happy if I can link together two solid tori carved from different trees: