The professors, even when dancing with beautiful women, are never without their white mice. They fit nicely into the pockets of suitcoats, and turn the concern back to science, interrupting song and flipping wig. 
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Big strangeness scampers about on tiny feet. A hint of pink sets the entire sky on fire.
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Some of us run. Some of us volunteer to be the wooden chairs upon which others stand. Some of us live in suitcoat pockets. Some have been conditioned to dance.