Well-- [CHUCKLES] Well, well.
To explain myself, to explain these salty ways,
I go back to an old poem, "I Knew I'd Sing".
This is just the confession that attends the dirty mouth
you've already sensed was, if not latent, express already.
"I Knew I'd Sing".
"A few sashay, a few finagle"--
you gotta love the words, whatever else is going on.
"A few sashay, a few finagle.
Some make whoopee, some make good.
But most make diddly-squat.
I tell you this is what I love about America,
the words it puts in my mouth, the mouth where once my mother
rubbed a word away with soap.
The word was cunt.
She stuck that bar of family-size
in there until there was no hole to speak of, so she hoped.
But still I'm full of it, the cunt, the prick, short u,
short i, the words that stood for her and him.
I loved the thing they must have done, the love they must have
made, to make an example of me.
After my lunch of Ivory, I said vagina for a day or two,
but knew from that day forth which word struck home like sex
itself.
I knew when I was big I'd sing a song in praise of cunt,
I'd want to keep my word, the one with teeth in it.
Forevermore, and even after I was raised,
I swore nothing but nothing would be beneath me.
[QUIET CLAPPING]
[CHUCKLES] The sound of one hand clapping.
[LAUGHS] It's a spiritual moment.
[LAUGHTER]
All right.