When arriving at a venue the proper mask must be applied,
to conceal the grotesqueness,
that’s lurking just inside.

Smooth, smooth, pretty and clean,
Looking all the more obscene.

The suits are always staring
 With their hollow empty eyes
Clustering like insects,
of every shape and size.

Where the blackberries grow,
You’ll find their best plans laid.

Twitching there proboscises,
Their strikes are often grave.    

The twittering of the arthropod,
planning their new plans.
Gather around, they wheedle and work,
to move those grains of sand.