TICK and TOCK are in a tree, watching LENA and JOHN go on a boat ride down a stream.
JOHN: California exists, Len! Can you believe it?
JOHN: What do you mean?
LENA: No, I don’t believe in California.
JOHN: But it’s real!
LENA: No it’s not. It’s just a figment of some terrible songwriter’s imagination.
JOHN: But Tick said―
LENA: Since when has anything Tick said made any sense?
JOHN: Well, that one time, she said…
JOHN: One time she said, “The night sky is nothing but a black bottle of milk with pinpricks of firefly juice.”
JOHN: Exactly what?
LENA: You’ve proven my point.
JOHN: No, I’ve proven my point.
LENA rolls her eyes, frustrated.
TOCK: Should we tell them?
TICK: I suppose…
TOCK: But “should” isn’t the same thing as “will”.
TICK: I love it when you finish my…
TOCK stares blankly at TICK.
TICK starts stripping leaves from the tree.
TOCK: What are you doing?
TICK: I’m making a song.
TOCK shrugs and starts watching LENA and JOHN with vulpine focus, who continue to argue incessantly over unimportant subjects.
TICK (singing in her strangely melodic voice): ♩ Row, row, row your boat/gently down the stream/when you hit the waterfall/then you’ll start to scream ♩
LENA and JOHN: AAAAAHHHHHHHHH!