I think we're just going to do one more and then we're going
to break the piñata.
Excuse me, smash the patriarchy.
Don't miss the smash the patriarchy.
I want you to tell me what you'd like me to read.
Morrissey fans?
[CHEERS]
OK, well, I was just-- never mind.
But the other one, OK, this is for you.
This is for Morrissey fans.
To be clear, fans.
Because he keeps canceling the shows.
I have tickets here.
That's not OK.
It's not OK.
Do you hear me Moz?
Stop it.
Stop.
For those of you who don't know who Morrissey is,
well it's like Elvis back in the day,
except, maybe not stealing music so much,
stealing all the Rock and Roll.
Morrissey didn't steal, I know.
You'll see why.
"Because we craved permission to be despondent in English,
desperate to hide erections for boys behind trapper keepers,
to document Kotex leaks in our journals.
We needed to be maudlin, to be untranslatable,
to do this in private in the company of someone with rank.
We hunted for you in crates, battled mold and being broke.
Scraped pennies from grandparents
who collected cans to feed us.
We needed to hear your 50s guitar in the key of sorrow.
Mexican and not, born here and not,
our duplexes or cells of some freeway and no movement murals
cushion our daily gray sky, our $0.99 interchanges.
To your voice we work our lives away
in UPS trucks as perfect receptionists and community
college forever.
This is how you hate the queen.
I seethed at the church for making me dirty,
so we were instant friends.
You made me want a public transit
death so we could be together.
We saved you from the--
British-- we saved you from the has-been, dollar bin, where
your American-Manchester daydream, empty-tire factories,
soot-covered eyelids, cracked, front teeth, and bleeding lips.
We fondled open your shirts and built a country
around you of sidelong glances and glum gladiolus.
When you saw our tight, black jeans and creepers,
you tasted our penchant for racing Chevys down Slauson
with no headlights.
We are your wistful twin, that boy you won't share.
You watched us make love in cemeteries, trimmed
our sideburns, Las Vegas, Elvis beats made us jump like beans.
We are fatalists by nations on all sides,
death happy because it constantly raps at our door.
In the carcinogenic heart of this Manchester,
our black lungs sing with you because every time we listen,
it's our last day, too."
Thank you.
[CHEERS AND APPLAUSE]