This poem is called "Paranoia," written
not by me, but by somebody who is paranoid.
[LAUGHTER]
"Paranoia"-- when you drive on the freeway, cars follow you.
[LAUGHTER]
Someone opens your mail, two hands that
come out of your shirtsleeves.
Your dog looks at you.
He does not like you.
At the driving test, the cop is tired.
He has sat up all night, screening your dreams.
If you go to the zoo, be sure to take your passport.
Everywhere you go, the dog goes with you.
Beautiful women come up to you and ask for the dog's telephone
number.
[LAUGHTER]
You go to teach.
Everyone who passes you in the corridor
knows you never finished Tristram Shandy.
You are the assistant professor no one associates with.
At the yoga class, you finally get into the lotus position.
You are carried home.
[LAUGHTER]
When you turn the refrigerator to defrost, the TV drips.
Across the street, the pigeons call softly
to each other like the FBI on a stakeout.
When you walk to the post office and see the flag at half-mast,
you know you have died.
[LAUGHTER]
[APPLAUSE]