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And we'll be able, with our robobug eyes, and all the
corners of our body.
We'll be able, we'll be able to discern the unique light
signatures of extrememly specific things like tanks
resting under trees, covered in camoflague, or tanks painted
with a paint made to make them not look like tanks under trees.
So, if the bad guys are hiding tanks under trees and you have a
good idea of what the bad guy's tank is like, and you what the
local trees look like, you can screen out the trees wavelength
and just see the tank signature.
Then we'll know if there's something bad under that tree,
and you can bank in spectral light ray, scary library, and
oats of infinite space and time and barley time.
I say, I sing, we're just putting another arrow in our
quiver and you can spend your days imagining how an enemy
might exploit space, because it is our manifest destiny to
exploit space and it is a dangerous world out there.
Okay, and I'm going to...
[audience applause].
(Anne). So I'm just going
to end with a few verses from, "Verses For The
New Amazing Grace."
The grace of all the bards who pen their words to transport me.
Sweet vowels and consonants strengthen
goddess poetry's legacy.
Hard pearls roll off the poets tongues
who chant in praise of love.
Trubadours blast with hearty lungs.
Esoterics zapped from above.
Oh, Sapho's bite, and Shakespeare's wit,
and Dante's mystical climb.
Dickenson's ryhme, bearded Whitman's breath
are etched in genetic spine.
And if the planet ceased to spin,
sad universe goes silent dark.
Ancient poetry's echoes will make a din, rekindle the
primordial spark.
Oh, I bow down to Christ's throny crown.
All sacraments meant to heal.
The Buddha smile, oh Yahweh's frown,
and Allah's consummate zeal.
But, poetry's a goddess sent to save a wretch like me.
She strums the strings of life's desperate edge with her
haunting, haunting, haunting melody.
Thank you.
[audience applause].
[no dialogue].