It could be that I'm not going to read a story.
I'm just going to end with poems.
What do you think?
Could be?
Or I could stop reading poems, and read a story.
Could I crowdsource this question?
[LAUGHTER]
No?
Whoa, I heard both.
That was higher.
I heard both.
It might go even a little longer than the-- yeah.
OK, another animal poem.
This is called "Ginger Ale."
"You don't want to think about chickens going over London.
Millions of chickens opening their eyes for one second,
waking up in a cage--
no, in a wide field of tiny chickens like a mile-wide tray.
And they get these chemicals on their feed--
that's the only way I can imagine
it-- filled with sex drug that makes
them wild, distorted, crippled.
And how do they kill the chickens all at once?
Where did chickens come from anyway?
Some chickens wake up in some nice place
like Leslie's, where they live for a while,
having friends in her yard with their different personalities.
But the millions and trillions of the other kind-- one
flash of light, then they're eaten on a plane.
We're flying, and we're eating them.
And aren't they birds?
And the plane is going over water
now-- a plane full of killers desperately looking
for something good with their fingers.
But there's nothing good.
How could there be?
The chicken's death is not on your hands.
Something else is."
[APPLAUSE]
I think two more poems and a story.