I shot off his left ear then his right, and then tore off his belt buckle with hot lead, and then I shot off everything that counts and when he bent over to pick up his drawers and his marbles (poor critter) I fixed it so he wouldn’t have to straighten up no more. Ho Hum. I went in for a fast snort and one guy seemed to be looking at me sideways, and that’s how he died— sideways, lookin’ at me and clutchin’ for his marbles. Sight o’ blood made me kinda hungry. Had a ham sandwich. Played a couple of sentimental songs… Shot out all the lights and strolled outside. Didn’t seem to be no one around so I shot my horse (poor critter). Then I saw the Sheerf a standin’ at the end a’ the road and he was shakin’ like he had the Saint Vitus dance; it was a real sorrowful sight so I slowed him to a quiver with the first slug and mercifully stiffened him with the second. Then I laid on my back awhile and I shot out the stars one by one and then I shot out the moon and then I walked around and shot out every light in town, and pretty soon it began to get dark real dark the way I like it; just can’t stand to sleep with no light shinin’ on my face. I laid down and dreamt I was a little boy again a playin’ with my toy six- shooter and winnin’ all the marble games, and when I woke up my guns was gone and I was all bound hand and foot just like somebody was scared a me and they was slippin’ a noose around my ugly neck just as if they meant to hang me, and some guy was pinnin’ a real pretty sign on my shirt: there’s a law for you and a law for me and a law that hangs from the foot of a tree. Well, pretty poetry always did make my eyes water and can you believe it all the women was cryin’ and though they was moanin’ other men’s names I just know they was cryin’ for me (poor critters) and though I’d slept with all a them, I’d forgotten in all the big excitement to tell ’em my name and all the men looked angry but I guess it was because the kids was all being impolite and a throwin’ tin cans at me, but I told ’em not to worry because their aim was bad anyhow not a boy there looked like he’d turn into a man— 90% homosexuals, the lot of them, and some guy shouted “let’s send him to hell!” and with a jerk I was dancin’ my last dance, but I swung out wide and spit in the bartender’s eye and stared down into Nellie Adam’s breasts, and my mouth watered again.
O ants crawl my drunken arms and they let Van Gogh sit in a cornfield and take Life out of the world with a shotgun, ants crawl my drunken arms and they set Rimbaud to running guns and looking under rocks for gold. O ants crawl my drunken arms, they put Pound in a nuthouse and made Crane jump into the sea in his pajamas, ants, ants crawl my drunken arms as our schoolboys scream for Willie Mays instead of Bach, ants crawl my drunken arms through the drink I reach for surfboards and sinks, for sunflowers and the typewriter falls like a heart-attack from the table or a dead Sunday bull, and the ants crawl into my mouth and down my throat, I wash them down with wine and pull up the shades and they are on the screen and on the streets climbing church towers and into tire casings looking for something else to eat.