Oh, I was going to read you My Man and Woman poem,
but I don't have time.
So I'm going to end not on an upbeat, but on a downbeat.
I'm going to read you one of my most misanthropic poems.
My poems are getting more and more misanthropic as I go on.
I read almost every day a murder mystery,
if I'm not busy with other things.
And I'm not teaching now.
So really, I read almost every day a murder mystery.
And this poem clearly comes from the scene of the murder
mystery, but it's about the greatest whodunit of all.
There is no greater, the mystery of mortality.
It's called "The Case of the--"
[LAUGHTER]
Drinking the Seconal dissolved in bourbon, stabbed in the fog.
Shoved into quick sand, caught in the telescopic sight.
Feeling a sudden pressure on the carotids from behind.
Scalped, buried, bombed, smothered in cellophane.
Another blow and another savage, fast unreasoning.
In Amsterdam, Gary, Indonesia, Alabama, Budapest,
perilous, perilous the keeping of the human spirit.
Killed everywhere, on the train, in the tomb, generosity.
At the racetrack, grace.
At the tiller, down the sewers, in the unguarded,
hospital rooms, willingness.
In the London slum, on the plane, at the Mountain Resort,
strength.
In the pew and Golden Gate Bridge, affection.
Nowhere to hide.
Everywhere, everywhere someone is out looking for you.
One with his mouth hung open to hear.
Grunts, huh?
After every statement, huh?
His prostate swells, blood pressure bangs his head.
This country's gone to the dogs, and the hippies can go too.
And one pees 14 times a night, missing the bedpan
every other time.
Her false teeth clicking with malice,
she whispers, if you don't watch them every minute,
they'll steal you blind.
Are the passers by in collusion?
Did the victim deserve what he got?
The search for evidence goes on and on, the light burns.
The sirens whine, the long report says you only live once.
Fingerprints, autopsies, exhumations tell us
a great deal, but the shoes don't fit anyone we know.
As for the bodies, some were fair of faith,
some had nothing to lose.
And the last page, the one-eyed witness trapped by the DA
drops his dreams and his lies.
His squirrel mouth opens, and he squeals all he knows.
The sun done it, coming up every damn morning like it does.
Thank you.
[APPLAUSE]