Early that morning, Stevie put on his warm coat; called up the Meters. . . Breakfast was served. Cold cuts! "I can't believe it", exclaimed Art. Must have been sliced in some sort of Leisure Lab. Thick slices, not your typical breakfast fare. 'Twas a cold winter morn' and Alphonse was pouring the syrup. "Hey Billy", shouted Alphonse. Mister Cobham responded with a flurry of tapping toes. . . Stevie couldn't resist the rhythmic invite and began to hum. Just then, Grant walked in through the low door. Green eggs had he on a small blue plate. Larry showed up late; John had been driving. Stopped to pickup Fela, who had been busy detuning his sax. The grand breakfast lasted many years. One by one. . . And sometimes in twos or threes, the esteemed guests mounted their sonic steeds, assisted by Stylus. Journeyed though the air. Particles vibrating. Leapt they into a young man's head by way of his auricles.
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