Well, I don't come from France.
So my poem doesn't have the dignity of Apollinaire.
It's sort of Apollinaire translated into the Bronx.
It's called "Poem after Apollinaire."
I miss the peace and quiet of Chicago.
That's the kind of guy I am.
[LAUGHTER]
I've been to funerals where cigars
are the only monuments to the dead and lipstick bleeds
on the dead man's lips.
I'm not afraid of death.
And I'm not afraid of noise.
But when you take off your stockings,
I hear moles tearing at the seams of the Earth.
Field my scurry into the deepest holes and a roar
from the subway that could make me
say, yes, sir, to the president, who I hate.
And if afterwards, I should light a cigar,
it has nothing to do with the movies or having a good time.
It's just my way of keeping my fingers busy,
of burning your smell out of the room.
I don't want to work.
I don't even want to smoke.
I just need a few moments to recover.
[APPLAUSE]