Movie paused, bowls came out, Everybody lost what the plot was about. Pickle said “food,” Bag said “foooood,” Then the whole damn room changed mood. Food. Fooooood. Füd. Feeyood. Strawberry margaritas going round, Gymkata frozen with the volume down. Bowls on deck, dinner in sight, One little word took over the night. Food. Fooooood. Foo-oo-ood. Say it again like you forgot how to chew. Bag put the hat on, room went dead, Fish running clean through the front of his head. Not an arrow, not a dart, not a cheap little trick, A whole damn fish doing slapstick. Food. Fooooood. Füd. Feeyood. Pre-mixed strawberry trouble in the cup, One more sip and the lore builds up. Gymkata kicks and the fish hat gleams, This is what happens in off-collab streams.
