The ****** told it with drollness…I heard it like this:

The 5000 children were waiting before sunrise
Each brought three items for the Creep to sign
They love him—he is their passion, their hero
They love his genius and style
To them he is a breathing masterpiece

They praise the darkness that he brings into the atmosphere
And get high off his eerie aura

The Creep was tired but willing
His Organizer could see the stress shine off him and gently she rubbed the Creep with ice
Within the first half hour his eyes were wilting, his frown was turning to stone
“My fingers are bleeding,” he mumbled as he scribbled a child’s copy of his misery
“Can you get me some bandages?” he asked his Organizer

“Wait! No!” a kid protested. “Don’t bandage him until he bleeds on my book!”
Every child in line heard this and a chorus of 5000 cried, “Not fair! If the Creep bleeds on his book he has to bleed on my book!”
*** is what went through his Organizer’s mind

Creep’s jaw fell
She couldn’t believe this poet didn’t know what to say—he was caught off guard
“They’re your fans,” she said
He spread blood on each of those kids’ three things
He was very sustainable with his blood, deepening each wound before cutting a new one

…The ****** told this story with pleasure and wit
The audience laughed, as if it were the ****** who had to cut his fingers for 5000 kids