WEBVTT

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A little sequel I wrote--

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it's called "The Lost
Angel," it's a little poem

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that I had a lot of fun with.

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I wrote it very
easily and I liked it,

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I liked the way it moved.

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I don't know if I like
anything else about it,

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but I l I love the
way I got it to move,

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and I was very pleased,
because it moves so well.

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And I sent it to the
New Yorker, which

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is a magazine in which I
published quite frequently

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and which I hate.

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But I'm an American
I love money,

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and I hate it, because
it's such a snotty snobby.

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I mean, I have a
feeling if I ever walked

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into the pages of the New
Yorker, would just all turn,

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the lights would go out.

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And I would hear a voice
say, get him off the page.

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He's too short, he's too clumsy,
he's got the wrong accent,

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he doesn't dress right,
he's just not right

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get him off the page.

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And I would wake up
in oh I don't know,

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Ring or Motorcycle Digest.

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Almost any other
magazine except Screen,

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but never in the New Yorker.

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And when I sent him
this poem and they

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wanted me to change the ending
they said, get the last stanza

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off and we'll publish it.

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And I didn't do it, it's one
of the few times in my life

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I was ever stubborn
for the right reasons.

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I started trying some of
the other day about that--

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I had this long poem, my wife
and I were in Spain living

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and we want to go to Italy and
we didn't have enough money.

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So I had this long poem and
I sent it to the New Yorker,

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there was an outhouse
in the first stanza

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and they wrote back.

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And said, we really
like this poem,

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but we don't like the outhouse.

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He said, there are no
outhouses in the New Yorker.

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And I thought about
that for a long time.

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[LAUGHTER]

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Well, I thought about all the
ads in the magazine for wine,

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and whiskey, and cheese
and good restaurants,

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and I thought about
how perfectly willing

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they were to
initiate a process--

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[LAUGHTER]

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They were unwilling to
see to its fruition.

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I know it's a sick
goddam magazine.

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I bet everybody on
Wall Street, greed

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that's why the country
is so fucked up.

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Why capitalists are so
mean, because there are

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no outhouses on Wall Street.

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Let me read a little-- this
poem is so innocent that when

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I returned to it with
all that it just quakes.

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It's just about a little
angel coming to the door.

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The speaker in a poem doesn't--
the speaker is me and the New

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Yorker, and we don't expect
angels and we ain't going

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to have them.

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"The Lost Angel."

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Four little children
in winged costumes.

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It has something to
do with raising money.

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Children are hungry, the one
says, the one who can talk.

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And they go down the
drive in the driving rain

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and there is no car to
collect them, no one

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waiting and the bills and coins
spill from his trailing hand

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and float like pieces of light.

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Wait, wait I yell and run to
gather what I can and he turns,

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the one who can talk, holding
his empty fists as offerings,

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two shaking hammers, and
gives me back my life.

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