by Shel Silverstein 


When you spit from the twenty-sixth floor,

And it floats on the breeze to the ground,

Does it fall upon hats

Or on white Persian cats

Or on heads, with a pitty-pat sound?

I used to think life was a bore,

But I don't feel that way anymore,

As I count up the hits,

As I smile as I sit,

As I spit from the twenty-sixth floor.


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