And now we'd like to do a number that we wrote with a very gifted composer, Saul Chaplin. This number is about inspiration and is dedicated to the proposition that behind every great and famous man, you must always look for the little woman who is really responsible for the whole thing. All great men in history and art have had women to lead them to fame. That's right. Women unsung, unheralded. I never heard of them. No one ever knows them by name. It's a shame. And yet they were the inspiration. They were the inspiration. Behind every topic and sample, a shell shall affirm. Ludwig van Beethoven, long, long ago, wrote four big symphonies, all in a row, but the fifth one he could not create. He was worried because his lady friend was giving him the gate, but suddenly, out of her scorn, a Beethoven's fifth was born. Liebchen, I love you. Ludwig van Beethoven, you here again? But Liebchen, have pity. Ludwig, leave me alone. Get out of here. Leave you alone? Get out of here? Yes, leave me alone. Get out of here. Da, da, da, da. Yes, that's it. My fifth symphony. Inspiration. She was inspiration. Not the Morse Code to life. Pssst. What am I going to do with this machine? Pssst. What am I going to do? Oh, Samuel Morse, why on Earth do you spend all your time tinkering away with that fool thing? For goodness sakes, why don't you go out and get an honest job? Please, please, I am trying to work. Work. Work. You call that work? Well, for goodness sakes, what if you do send it to Washington? New York to Washington, psssst. Washington to New York, psssst. Why on Earth would I want that? Please, please, please. I know, but I didn't have to marry you. I could have married somebody else and with an honest job, a butcher, a baker, somebody who does money. Oh, for heaven sakes, shut up. Yes, that's it, the Morse Code. Inspiration. She was his inspiration. Behind every topic and song. A watch for the dog. All great composers, and sometimes could fail. Once, Rimsky-Korsakov felt he'd grown stale, saw nothing left to write music about, to the little wife who loved him, had the sense to point it out, and suddenly, he wrote with glee, The Flight of the Bumblebee. Oh, I can't write, I'm all played out. Why, Rimsky-Korsakov, you're just in a rut, that's all, you've been writing all that Oriental stuff, that Scheherazade. Yes, I know, and the Song of India. Yes, yes, yes, I know, but that's enough of that Oriental stuff. Well, what else is there? Why, Rimsky, just look around you in your own backyard. Now, there's a tree, and there's a bird, and oh, oh, mercy, look, there's a bee. Ah! Wow, yes, that's it, the bee, The Flight of the Bumblebee. Dig it!