When you spit from the twenty-sixth floor
And if floats on the breeze to the ground
Does it fall upon hats
Or on white persian cats
Or on heads, with a pitty-pat sound?
Oh, I used to think life was a bore
But I don't feel that way any more
As count up the hits,
As I smile as I sit,
As I spit from the twenty-sixth floor.

~ Shel Silverstein
Where the Sidewalk Ends

My favorite poem of all time. Hands down.
Listen to the master read it (and others) himself, here (track 26).