I CELEBRATE myself, and sing myself,
And what I tweet, you shall retweet.
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you; on eBay, for a price.

I loafe and invite the paparazzi,
I lean and loafe at my ease eating a spear of summer grass
Because you think I get this figure from eating hamburgers?

Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all hotness,
You shall possess the good of Givenchy and Versace.

There was never any more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now,
Thank you, Botox!

Urge, and urge, and urge;
Always the procreant urge of the world.
Thank you, Valtrex!

Welcome is every organ and attribute of me, and of any man hearty and tested for STIs,
Not an inch nor a particle of an inch is vile, and none shall be less familiar than the rest,
As you will see if you purchase my sex tape ($39.99).

A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child? I mean, what kind of a question is that?
Go ask Jose. He takes care of the lawn.

Undrape! you are not guilty to me, nor stale, nor discarded;
I see through the broadcloth and the gingham;
So yeah, take off the gingham. It’s not in this season; I’m doing you a favor.

I hear the sound of love, the sound of the camera;
I hear all sounds running together, combined, fused or following;
Sounds of the city, and sounds out of the city—sounds of the day and night;
Talkative young ones to those that like them—the loud pop of the champagne cork;
The angry bass of club music—the faint clink of glasses;
The honking—the solid roll of the train of approaching Escalades;
The ring of sirens—the cry of cop cars—the whirr of the breathalyzer;
The judge with hands tight to the desk, his pallid lips pronouncing community service.

Shoulder your Prada, dear son, and I will mine, and let us hasten forth,
Wonderful cities and free swag we shall fetch as we go.

I too am not a bit tamed—I too am untranslatable;
I sound my barbaric That’s Hot over the roofs of the club.

The last limo of the day holds back for me;
It flings my likeness after the rest, and true as any, on the 405;
It coaxes me to the fashion show and the party.

You will hardly know who I am, or what I mean;
But I shall be good entertainment to you nevertheless,
And filter and fiber your boring existence.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere posing for you.