Here's a poem I wrote a few years ago about somebody
whose name I forgot.
Turns out her name was Nancy Spungen. Anybody
know who I'm speaking about?
Nancy Spungen was the girlfriend of Sid Vicious.
Sid Vicious, in case you don't know who I mean,
was one of the Sex Pistols.
Now, you may be too young to remember the Sex Pistols,
but I notice 11-year-olds wearing T-shirts
saying Sex Pistols on, so it must mean something to them.
This was the first of the punk groups.
And they had a very short, very sensational career.
The lead singer was called Johnny Rotten.
But equally famous was this other character, Sid Vicious.
And they had one American tour which wasn't very long.
They ended up in San Francisco at a performance
I didn't go to.
I wish I had really.
I don't think the music was very good.
But there was a lot to see.
And the audience was all spitting at Sid Vicious,
and he was spitting back at them.
[LAUGHTER]
After that, the band broke up.
And most of them went back to England.
But Sid Vicious stayed on in New York, checked into the Chelsea
Hotel, the famous hotel for performers, where I once
heard every bellboy is a drug dealer, probably libelous,
but that's what I heard.
Anyway, he had a very severe heroin habit.
And one day, he came to in his hotel room
and found out that his girlfriend
had been stabbed through the stomach, probably by himself.
But I don't think it was ever really cleared up.
His mother came over from England.
He was still very young.
And since he was on probation as a result of this.
This was before the trial.
And she didn't want him to go out
on the street trying to get his drug.
So she got something for him.
And fortunately, it was full-strength instead of being
stepped-on as it usually is.
So he took it just once and died.
So much for mother's love.
[LAUGHTER]
I was thinking about this on the bus one day.
I think a lot of things on the bus.
If you've-- well, I get a lot of ideas on the bus.
[LAUGHTER]
I realized I couldn't remember her name.
I remembered all about this, but poor woman.
She was nameless to me.
And here's the poem.
It's called "The Victim."
"Oh, dead punk lady with the knack of looking fierce
in pins and black, the suburbs wouldn't want you back.
You wished upon a shooting star, and trusted in your wish
as far as he was famous and bizarre.
The band broke up, its gesture made.
And though the music stopped, you stayed.
Now, it was with sharp things he played, needles and you,
not with the band, until something
greater than you planned opened erect within his hand.
He smiled.
He pushed it through your shirt, deep in your belly
where it hurt.
You turned and ate the carpet's dirt.
And then, not understanding why, he watched out
with a heavy eye the several hours you took to die.
The news was full of his fresh fame.
He ODed ending up the same.
Poor girl, poor girl, what was your name?