Listen to my last words anywhere. Listen to my last words in the world. All you boards, governments, syndicates, nations of the world. And you powers behind what filth deals consummated in what lavatory. To take what is not yours. To sell out your sons for ever. To sell the ground from unborn feet for ever. I bear no sick words, junk words, love words, forgive words from Jesus. I have not come to explain or tidy up. What am I doing over here with the workers, the gooks, the apes, the dogs, the errand boys, the human animals? Why don't I come over with the board and drink Coca-Cola or make it? Explain how the blood and bones and brains of a hundred million more or less gooks went down the drain in green kiss. So you on the board could use bodies and minds and souls that were not yours. Are not yours and never will be yours. You have the wrong name and the wrong number, Mr. Luce Getty Lee Rockefeller. Don't let them see us; don't tell them what we are doing. Not the cancer deal with the Venusians; not the green deal; don't let that happen. Disaster; automate disaster. Crabmen; tapeworms; intestinal parasites. Like Burroughs, that proud American name. Proud of what, exactly? Would you all like to see exactly what Burroughs has to be proud of? The Mayan caper; the centipede hype; the short-time racket; the heavy metal gimmick. All right, Mr. Burroughs who bears my name and my words, buried all the way for all to see; in Times Square, in Piccadilly. Play it all, play it all, play it all back. Pay it all, pay it all, pay it all back. No, no, no; premature, premature, premature. Are these the words of the all-powerful boards and syndicates of the earth? I say all these words are not premature; these words may be too late.

"Last Words"; monologue from the novel "Nova Express" (1962) by William S. Burroughs.