Excuse me.
This is called "The Cripple."
Little by little, you'll fade away
because I start to read some that I sort of like.
I never really like them a whole lot.
But if somebody calls on me to defend them,
I'll do it to the death.
But you'll just fade and I'll just--
I might even start dancing across the stage.
[LAUGHTER]
That's self-love, egotism.
This is called "The Cripple," which is not funny.
It's not a funny poem.
It's about-- well, I have a friend who's crippled.
And I was very touched by his--
the inhumane treatment he often receives.
Like when he takes a girl out or used to,
guys would pick a fight with him and he's on crutches.
And it's just like a really sick thing.
We both call ourselves social outcasts and we are.
I, for a number of reasons, which
I won't go into because they're too complicated.
But I think because he's crippled and he's poor.
To be poor is bad enough, but to be crippled and poor
is even worse.
"The Cripple."
"I pull my legs from the floor as I would to weeds,
gently pretending my roots have remained
in the soil that once held me upright
in the palm of its hand.
And the road's a black thread I walked sewing years.
Instead, the itch deep in my heel
cries from its mouth one thorn after another."
Sorry, sometimes my mind is running ahead of the things
I'm doing.
And I just forget right in the middle what I'm reading.