A poem called "The Ink Spots," you all
know the ink spots if you don't, play it.
Don't pretend you don't, do you know Ink Spots?
Dun duh duh duh di di di di if I didn't --
all right, "The Ink Spots".
This about a dove and there is a place in here called Altoona.
It's a city in Pennsylvania, what used
to be a Great Railroad town.
And there's a curve as a train rounds of mountain
called the horseshoe curve.
It's famous for about 10 miles.
"The thing about the dove was how he cried in my pocket,
and stuck his nose out just enough to breathe some air,
and we've got some snow and got some--
and get some snow in his eye.
And he would have snuggled in, but I was afraid and brought
him into the house, so he could shit on the New York Times.
Still I had to kiss him after a minute,
I put my lips to his beak and he knew what he was doing.
He stretched his neck and touched me with his open mouth
lifting his wings a little, and readjusting his legs
loving his own prettiness.
And I just sang from one of my stupid songs,
from one of my vile decades, the way I do, I have to admit.
It was something from trains, I know
he'd like that, resting in the cold car,
slightly dusted with mountain snow, somewhere near Altoona.
The horseshoe curve he knew so well, his own moan mashing
the trains, a radio playing the Ink Spots,
the engineer roaring."