I have to come clean. In light of the recent attention shed on a certain book that has been ripped into a million tiny shreds, I have come to reconsider the writings I have written over a lifetime. Not only have I passed off certain versifications as true, but sometimes in earnest nocturnal conversation -- or even on public broadcasts -- I have confided that these ragtag couplets truly are emissions from my soul.
But no more. The truth is that I have tampered with certain events and situations to render them more conveniently squished into song. I have taken the truth, bent it like a wire hanger, and used it to whack my tiny tribe of fans square on the ass.
Thus it is with great shame that I must confess a horrible confession.
It didn't really happen on 31st Avenue.
It was Broadway, one block over.
'31st Avenue' just sounded better.