This is called Foolology.
And this is on the album-- the first album is
set to music by Lester Bowie of the Chicago Art Ensemble.
I can't understand what they're playing half the time,
but you sound OK on this one.
[LAUGHTER]
Man, this new music boy, shoo'.
I said that Cecil Taylor concert.
I said, oh my God.
Oh no.
Don't play it-- that's enough.
[LAUGHTER]
Don't tell him I said that.
[LAUGHTER]
Cecil Taylor is a great guy.
Foolology.
Don't tell him that I said it.
Foolology.
So they say you're not supposed to have a-- a modern portrait,
you're not supposed to have a didactic system.
No moral instruction.
But in our tradition of-- folklore tradition you find--
don't you ever do that again because this
will happen to you.
You get one warning.
So I got two of them in here, OK?
Shaken by his bad press the wolf presses north,
leaving caribou to the fox.
Raven, the snow player, gets his before buzzards
with bright red collars move in to dine
near the bottom of a long scavenger line.
This poem is about a skunk.
No, rather, about a man who, though not of the skunk family,
uses [INAUDIBLE] the way skunks do.
After he eats, his friends eat.
He is a fool and some friends are fools.
But sometimes it's hard to tell who's
the biggest fool, this fool or his fool friends.
By the time they catch us, we not there.
We're crows.
Nobody's ever seen a dead crow on the highway.
First moral, don't do business with people for whom
April 1 is an important date.
[LAUGHTER]
They will use your bank balance to buy 8,000 pies--
[LAUGHTER]
--tunics, ballet slippers with bells,
and a mail order lake in the middle of the desert
for splash parties.
Second moral, before you can spot the fools in others,
you must rid yourself for the fool in you.
You can tell a fool by his big mouth.