might be my last poem.
Yeah, yeah.
It has a swim cap in it, so I thought I'd read it.
In the footnotes-- there are some footnotes in here.
And actually, is there a swim cap?
Yeah, yeah.
I wish I could sing, because a lot of these poems
are meant to be sung.
And I have a terrible voice.
There's like a karaoke scene in here.
And I'm just awful at karaoke.
I just cannot.
I'm just utterly--
I have a tin ear.
So imagine me singing this.
If anyone can sing and want to--
it's sort of dance hall--
you could read it.
OK.
[LAUGHING]
So I'm just going to read it, give my own poor rendition
of it.
But I'll read the footnote first.
"Note from the historian.
Dance hall stalls are located at the end of the bazaar.
Stall after stall, there is a different DJ,
but with the same soundtrack of the sea.
Well, some, like the stall, are humble tents with a sandy
floor, two turntables, and a mic,
a few other stalls are warehouse such as affairs with
a 27,000-watt sound system and official greeters who hand you
swim caps as you enter the front door,
dance hall song for when you're in the mood.
She a swift fire cat bristling she fie She
a clean rifle in bombo red car.
She give me agony, 'hind the meat shed.
She nuzzle me pizz, I nick her bat bact.
She illy wacka, she swipe a me cash.
She kingpin, she sing order of the keys.
She a keen song summer sound sea."