Strona 1 z 14 Konkurs recytatorski poezji w języku angielskim w XXVII Liceum Ogólnokształcącym im Tadeusza Czackiego w Warszawie
REGULAMIN KONKURSU RECYTATORSKIEGO KARTA ZGŁOSZENIA DO KONKURSU RECYTATORSKIEGO
POEZJI W JĘZYKU ANGIELSKIM
1. Każdą klasę reprezentuje 1-3 uczniów.
2. Zgłoszenia do 10.10.2009 r.
3. Konkurs odbędzie się 20.10.2009 r. L.P. Imię i nazwisko ucznia repertuar
4. Repertuar uczestników obejmuje poezję w języku
5. Każdy uczeń zobowiązany jest przygotować dwa wiersze.
6. Czas wykonania wiersza nie może przekroczyć 5 min. 2.
7. Prezentację ocenia jury złożone z nauczycieli języka
angielskiego wg następujących kryteriów:
Dobór repertuaru (dostosowanie do możliwości 3. *
Ogólny wyraz artystyczny
8. Decyzje JURY są ostateczne i niepodważalne.
Strona 2 z 14 Konkurs recytatorski poezji w języku angielskim w XXVII Liceum Ogólnokształcącym im Tadeusza Czackiego w Warszawie
George Gordon Byron William Wordswotrh
She Walks in Beauty Daffodils
She walks in Beauty, like the night I wander’d lonely as a cloud
Of cloudless climes and starry skies; That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
And all that's best of dark and bright When all at once I saw a crowd,
Meet in her aspect and her eyes: A host, of golden daffodils;
Thus mellowed to that tender light Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Which Heaven to gaudy day denies. Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
One shade the more, one ray the less, And twinkle on the Milky Way,
Had half impaired the nameless grace They stretch'd in never-ending line
Which waves in every raven tress, Along the margin of a bay:
Or softly lightens o'er her face; Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Where thoughts serenely sweet express, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, A poet could not but be gay,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, In such a jocund company:
The smiles that win, the tints that glow, I gazed -- and gazed -- but little thought
But tell of days in goodness spent, What wealth the show to me had brought:
A mind at peace with all below, For oft, when on my couch I lie
A heart whose love is innocent! In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
Strona 3 z 14 Konkurs recytatorski poezji w języku angielskim w XXVII Liceum Ogólnokształcącym im Tadeusza Czackiego w Warszawie
Robert Frost Emily Dickinson
Road Less Travelled I felt a Funeral, in my Brain
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,
And sorry I could not travel both And Mourners to and fro
And be one traveler, long I stood Kept treading – treading – till it seemed
And looked down one as far as I could That Sense was breaking through –
To where it bent in the undergrowth
And when they all were seated,
Then took the other as just as fair A Service, like a Drum –
And having perhaps the better claim Kept beating – beating – till I thought
Because it was grassy and wanted wear My Mind was going numb –
Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same And then I heard them lift a Box
And creak across my Soul
And both that morning equally lay With those same Boots of Lead, again,
In leaves no step had trodden black Then Space – began to toll,
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet, knowing how way leads onto way As all the Heavens were a Bell,
I doubted if I should ever come back And Being, but an Ear,
And I, and Silence, some strange Race
I shall be telling this with a sigh Wrecked, solitary, here –
Somewhere ages and ages hence
Two roads diverged in a wood And then a Plank in Reason, broke,
And I took the one less traveled by And I dropped down, and down –
And that has made all the difference And hit a World, at every plunge,
And Finished knowing – then –
Strona 4 z 14 Konkurs recytatorski poezji w języku angielskim w XXVII Liceum Ogólnokształcącym im Tadeusza Czackiego w Warszawie
Walt Whitman Czeslaw Milosz
Translated by Anthony Milosz
O Captain! My Captain! A Song On the End of the World
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, On the day the world ends
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won, A bee circles a clover,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, A fisherman mends a glimmering net.
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; Happy porpoises jump in the sea,
But O heart! heart! heart! By the rainspout young sparrows are playing
O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, And the snake is gold-skinned as it should always be.
Fallen cold and dead. On the day the world ends
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up- for you the Women walk through the fields under their umbrellas,
flag is flung- for you the bugle trills, A drunkard grows sleepy at the edge of a lawn,
Vegetable peddlers shout in the street
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths- for you the shores a-crowding, And a yellow-sailed boat comes nearer the island,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; The voice of a violin lasts in the air
Here Captain! dear father! And leads into a starry night.
This arm beneath your head! And those who expected lightning and thunder
It is some dream that on the deck, Are disappointed.
You've fallen cold and dead. And those who expected signs and archangels' trumps
Do not believe it is happening now.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, As long as the sun and the moon are above,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will, As long as the bumblebee visits a rose,
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, As long as rosy infants are born
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; No one believes it is happening now.
Exult O shores, and ring O bells! Only a white-haired old man, who would be a prophet
But I with mournful tread, Yet is not a prophet, for he's much too busy,
Walk the deck my Captain lies, Repeats while he binds his tomatoes:
Fallen cold and dead. No other end of the world will there be,
No other end of the world will there be.
Strona 5 z 14 Konkurs recytatorski poezji w języku angielskim w XXVII Liceum Ogólnokształcącym im Tadeusza Czackiego w Warszawie
Rudyard Kipling With sixty seconds' worth of distance run--
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
If— And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you; Naomi Shihab Nye
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too; Making a Fist
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies, For the first time, on the road north of Tampico,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating, I felt the life sliding out of me,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise; a drum in the desert, harder and harder to hear.
I was seven, I lay in the car
If you can dream--and not make dreams your master; watching palm trees swirl a sickening pattern past the
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim; glass.
If you can meet with triumph and disaster My stomach was a melon split wide inside my skin.
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken "How do you know if you are going to die?"
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, I begged my mother.
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken, We had been traveling for days.
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools; With strange confidence she answered,
"When you can no longer make a fist."
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, Years later I smile to think of that journey,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings the borders we must cross separately,
And never breathe a word about your loss; stamped with our unanswerable woes.
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew I who did not die, who am still living,
To serve your turn long after they are gone, still lying in the backseat behind all my questions,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you clenching and opening one small hand.
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
Strona 6 z 14 Konkurs recytatorski poezji w języku angielskim w XXVII Liceum Ogólnokształcącym im Tadeusza Czackiego w Warszawie
Emily Brontë W.H. Auden
Stanzas Funeral Blues
Often rebuked, yet always back returning Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
To those first feelings that were born with me, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
And leaving busy chase of wealth and learning Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
For idle dreams of things that cannot be: Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
To-day, I will seek not the shadowy region; Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Its unsustaining vastness waxes drear; Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
And visions rising, legion after legion, Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Bring the unreal world too strangely near. Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
I'll walk, but not in old heroic traces, He was my North, my South, my East and West,
And not in paths of high morality, My working week and my Sunday rest,
And not among the half-distinguished faces, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
The clouded forms of long-past history. I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
I'll walk where my own nature would be leading: The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
It vexes me to choose another guide: Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Where the gray flocks in ferny glens are feeding; Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
Where the wild wind blows on the mountain side. For nothing now can ever come to any good.
What have those lonely mountains worth revealing?
More glory and more grief than I can tell:
The earth that wakes one human heart to feeling
Can centre both the worlds of Heaven and Hell.
Strona 7 z 14 Konkurs recytatorski poezji w języku angielskim w XXVII Liceum Ogólnokształcącym im Tadeusza Czackiego w Warszawie
Edgar Allan Poe
A Dream Within A Dream John Milton
Take this kiss upon the brow! On Time
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-- Fly envious Time, till thou run out thy race,
You are not wrong, who deem Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours,
That my days have been a dream; Whose speed is but the heavy Plummets pace;
Yet if hope has flown away And glut thy self with what thy womb devours,
In a night, or in a day, Which is no more then what is false and vain,
In a vision, or in none, And meerly mortal dross;
Is it therefore the less gone? So little is our loss,
All that we see or seem So little is thy gain.
Is but a dream within a dream. For when as each thing bad thou hast entomb'd,
And last of all, thy greedy self consum'd,
I stand amid the roar Then long Eternity shall greet our bliss
Of a surf-tormented shore, With an individual kiss;
And I hold within my hand And Joy shall overtake us as a flood,
Grains of the golden sand-- When every thing that is sincerely good
How few! yet how they creep And perfectly divine,
Through my fingers to the deep, With Truth, and Peace, and Love shall ever shine
While I weep--while I weep! About the supreme Throne
O God! can I not grasp Of him, t' whose happy-making sight alone,
Them with a tighter clasp? When once our heav'nly-guided soul shall clime,
O God! can I not save Then all this Earthy grosnes quit,
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
Strona 8 z 14 Konkurs recytatorski poezji w języku angielskim w XXVII Liceum Ogólnokształcącym im Tadeusza Czackiego w Warszawie
William Blake John Donne
The Tyger The Flea
Tiger, tiger, burning bright Mark but this flea, and mark in this,
In the forests of the night, How little that which thou deny'st me is;
What immortal hand or eye It sucked me first, and now sucks thee,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry? And in this flea our two bloods mingled be;
In what distant deeps or skies Thou know'st that this cannot be said
Burnt the fire of thine eyes? A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead;
On what wings dare he aspire? Yet this enjoys before it woo,
What the hand dare seize the fire? And pampered swells with one blood made of two,
And what shoulder and what art And this, alas, is more than we would do.
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And, when thy heart began to beat, Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare,
What dread hand and what dread feet? Where we almost, yea, more than married are.
What the hammer? what the chain? This flea is you and I, and this
In what furnace was thy brain? Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is;
What the anvil? what dread grasp Though parents grudge, and you, w'are met,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp? And cloistered in these living walls of jet.
When the stars threw down their spears, Though use make you apt to kill me,
And watered heaven with their tears, Let not to that, self-murder added be,
Did He smile His work to see? And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.
Did He who made the lamb make thee?
Tiger, tiger, burning bright Cruel and sudden, hast thou since
In the forests of the night, Purpled thy nail in blood of innocence?
What immortal hand or eye Wherein could this flea guilty be,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? Except in that drop which it sucked from thee?
Yet thou triumph'st and say'st that thou
Find'st not thyself, nor me the weaker now;
'Tis true, then learn how false fears be:
Just so much honor, when thou yield'st to me,
Will waste, as this flea's death took life from thee
Strona 9 z 14 Konkurs recytatorski poezji w języku angielskim w XXVII Liceum Ogólnokształcącym im Tadeusza Czackiego w Warszawie
Thomas Hardy That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
The Darkling Thrush Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.
I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky Max Ehrmann
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh The Desiderata of Happiness
Had sought their household fires.
I sat with the stars on the hill of life
The land's sharp features seemed to be And looked at the world below.
The Century's corpse outleant, I ran with the winds where winds begin
His crypt the cloudy canopy, And followed them where they blow.
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth I lay by the sea on the beaten rock
Was shrunken hard and dry, And rode on the farthest wave,
And every spirit upon earth I watched by a child on its night of birth
Seemed fevourless as I. And followed it to its grave.
At once a voice arose among And love in the still of the star-flecked night,
The bleak twigs overhead When earth was all strewn with gold,
In a full-hearted evensong Has lifted my heart like the chords of song
Of joy illimited; Oft sung in the world of old.
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume, And though I have not understood all this,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul Made up a laugh and a wail,
Upon the growing gloom. I think that the God of the world knows all,
And someday will tell the tale.
So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
Strona 10 z 14 Konkurs recytatorski poezji w języku angielskim w XXVII Liceum Ogólnokształcącym im Tadeusza Czackiego w Warszawie
All the World's a Stage
All the world's a stage, Wislawa Szymborska
And all the men and women merely players; Translated by Clare Cavanagh and Stanislaw
They have their exits and their entrances, Baranczak
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant, Nothing Twice
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms. Nothing can ever happen twice. I feel as if a rose were flung
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel In consequence, the sorry fact is into the room, all hue and scent.
And shining morning face, creeping like snail that we arrive here improvised
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, and leave without the chance to practice. The next day, though you're here with me,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad I can't help looking at the clock:
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier, Even if there is no one dumber, A rose? A rose? What could that be?
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard, if you're the planet's biggest dunce, Is it a flower or a rock?
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel, you can't repeat the class in summer:
Seeking the bubble reputation this course is only offered once. Why do we treat the fleeting day
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice, with so much needless fear and sorrow?
In fair round belly with good capon lined, No day copies yesterday, It's in its nature not to say
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, no two nights will teach what bliss is Today is always gone tomorrow
Full of wise saws and modern instances; in precisely the same way,
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts with precisely the same kisses. With smiles and kisses, we prefer
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon, to seek accord beneath our star,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side; One day, perhaps some idle tongue although we're different (we concur)
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide mentions your name by accident: just as two drops of water are.
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
Strona 11 z 14 Konkurs recytatorski poezji w języku angielskim w XXVII Liceum Ogólnokształcącym im Tadeusza Czackiego w Warszawie
Allan Ahlberg And took Peculiar Pains to Souse
The Pictures up and down the House,
Please Mrs Butler Until Matilda's Aunt succeeded
In showing them they were not needed;
Please Mrs Butler And even then she had to pay
This boy Derek Drew To get the Men to go away!
Keeps copying my work, Miss. Hilaire Belloc
What shall I do?
Matilda It happened that a few Weeks later
Go and sit in the hall, dear. Who told lies, and was burned to death Her Aunt was off to the Theatre
Go and sit in the sink. To see that Interesting Play
Take your books on the roof, my lamb. Matilda told such Dreadful Lies, The Second Mrs. Tanqueray.
Do whatever you think. It made one Gasp and Stretch one's Eyes; She had refused to take her Niece
Her Aunt, who, from her Earliest Youth, To hear this Entertaining Piece:
Please Mrs Butler Had kept a Strict Regard for Truth, A Deprivation Just and Wise
This boy Derek Drew Attempted to Believe Matilda: To Punish her for Telling Lies.
Keeps taking my rubber, Miss. The effort very nearly killed her, That Night a Fire did break out--
What shall I do? And would have done so, had not She You should have heard Matilda Shout!
Discovered this Infirmity. You should have heard her Scream and Bawl,
Keep it in your hand, dear. For once, towards the Close of Day, And throw the window up and call
Hide it up your vest. Matilda, growing tired of play, To People passing in the Street--
Swallow it if you like, love. And finding she was left alone, (The rapidly increasing Heat
Do what you think best. Went tiptoe to the Telephone Encouraging her to obtain
And summoned the Immediate Aid Their confidence) -- but all in vain!
Please Mrs Butler Of London's Noble Fire-Brigade. For every time she shouted 'Fire!'
This boy Derek Drew Within an hour the Gallant Band They only answered 'Little Liar!'
Keeps calling me rude names, Miss. Were pouring in on every hand, And therefore when her Aunt returned,
What shall I do? From Putney, Hackney Downs, and Bow. Matilda, and the House, were Burned.
With Courage high and Hearts a-glow,
Lock yourself in the cupboard, dear. They galloped, roaring through the Town,
Run away to sea. 'Matilda's House is Burning Down!'
Do whatever you can, my flower. Inspired by British Cheers and Loud
But don't ask me! Proceeding from the Frenzied Crowd,
They ran their ladders through a score
Of windows on the Ball Room Floor;
Strona 12 z 14 Konkurs recytatorski poezji w języku angielskim w XXVII Liceum Ogólnokształcącym im Tadeusza Czackiego w Warszawie
Hilaire Belloc The awful tale from far and near Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the
Were much impressed, and inly swore beak--
Rebecca They never more would slam the door, Pray, how did you manage to do it?"
Who Slammed Doors For Fun And Perished -- As often they had done before.
Miserably "In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law,
And argued each case with my wife;
A trick that everyone abhors Lewis Carroll And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw
In little girls is slamming doors. Has lasted the rest of my life."
A wealthy banker's little daughter Father William
Who lived in Palace Green, Bayswater "You are old," said the youth, "one would hardly
(By name Rebecca Offendort), "You are old, Father William," the young man said, suppose
Was given to this furious sport. "And your hair has become very white; That your eye was as steady as ever;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head-- Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose--
She would deliberately go Do you think, at your age, it is right?" What made you so awfully clever?"
And slam the door like Billy-o!
To make her uncle Jacob start. "In my youth," Father William replied to his son, "I have answered three questions, and that is
She was not really bad at heart, "I feared it might injure the brain; enough,"
But only rather rude and wild; But, now that I'm perfectly sure I have none, Said his father; "don't give yourself airs!
She was an aggravating child... Why, I do it again and again." Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
Be off, or I'll kick you down-stairs!"
It happened that a marble bust "You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned
Of Abraham was standing just before,
Above the door this little lamb And have grown most uncommonly fat;
Had carefully prepared to slam, Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door--
And down it came! It knocked her flat! Pray, what is the reason of that?"
It laid her out! She looked like that.
"In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his gray
Her funeral sermon (which was long locks,
And followed by a sacred song) "I kept all my limbs very supple
Mentioned her virtues, it is true, By the use of this ointment -- one shilling the box -
But dwelt upon her vices too, Allow me to sell you a couple?"
And showed the dreadful end of one
Who goes and slams the door for fun. "You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are
The children who were brought to hear For anything tougher than suet;
Strona 13 z 14 Konkurs recytatorski poezji w języku angielskim w XXVII Liceum Ogólnokształcącym im Tadeusza Czackiego w Warszawie
Jenny Joseph So people who know me are not too shocked and Then sat himself in Grandma's chair.
surprised In came the little girl in red.
Warning When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple. She stopped. She stared. And then she said,
When I am an old woman I shall wear purple ``What great big ears you have, Grandma.''
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit Roald Dahl ``All the better to hear you with,'' the Wolf
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and Little Red Riding Hood and the Wolf ``What great big eyes you have, Grandma.''
summer gloves said Little Red Riding Hood.
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for As soon as Wolf began to feel ``All the better to see you with,'' the Wolf replied.
butter. That he would like a decent meal,
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired He went and knocked on Grandma's door. He sat there watching her and smiled.
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm When Grandma opened it, she saw He thought, I'm going to eat this child.
bells The sharp white teeth, the horrid grin, Compared with her old Grandmamma
And run my stick along the public railings And Wolfie said, ``May I come in?'' She's going to taste like caviar.
And make up for the sobriety of my youth. Poor Grandmamma was terrified,
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain ``He's going to eat me up!'' she cried. Then Little Red Riding Hood said, ``But
And pick flowers in other people's gardens And she was absolutely right. Grandma,
And learn to spit. He ate her up in one big bite. what a lovely great big furry coat you have on.''
But Grandmamma was small and tough,
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat And Wolfie wailed, ``That's not enough! ``That's wrong!'' cried Wolf. ``Have you forgot
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go I haven't yet begun to feel To tell me what BIG TEETH I've got?
Or only bread and pickle for a week That I have had a decent meal!'' Ah well, no matter what you say,
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and He ran around the kitchen yelping, I'm going to eat you anyway.''
things in boxes. ``I've got to have a second helping!'' The small girl smiles. One eyelid flickers.
Then added with a frightful leer, She whips a pistol from her knickers.
But now we must have clothes that keep us dry ``I'm therefore going to wait right here She aims it at the creature's head
And pay our rent and not swear in the street Till Little Miss Red Riding Hood And bang bang bang, she shoots him dead.
And set a good example for the children. Comes home from walking in the wood.'' A few weeks later, in the wood,
We must have friends to dinner and read the He quickly put on Grandma's clothes, I came across Miss Riding Hood.
papers. (Of course he hadn't eaten those). But what a change! No cloak of red,
He dressed himself in coat and hat. No silly hood upon her head.
But maybe I ought to practice a little now? He put on shoes, and after that She said, ``Hello, and do please note
He even brushed and curled his hair, My lovely furry wolfskin coat.''
Strona 14 z 14 Konkurs recytatorski poezji w języku angielskim w XXVII Liceum Ogólnokształcącym im Tadeusza Czackiego w Warszawie
Brian Patten 'You would,' I said. 'But why?' she said.
'Your friend,' she said. 'I lied,' I said.
Hair Today, No Her Tomorrow 'Oh damn,' I said. 'About what?' she said.
'And his friend,' she said. 'The new cat,' I said.
'I've been upstairs,' she said. 'Him too?' I said. 'It's white,' I said.
'Oh yes?' I said. 'And the rest,' she said.
'I found a hair,' she said. 'Good God,' I said.
'A hair?' I said.
'In the bed,' she said. 'What's that?' she said.
'From a head?' I said. 'What's what?' I said.
'It's not mine,' she said. 'That noise?' she said.
'Was it black?' I said. 'Upstairs?' I said.
'It was,' she said. 'Yes,' she said.
'I'll explain,' I said. 'The new cat,' I said.
'You swine,' she said. 'A cat?' she said.
'Not quite,' I said. 'It's black,' I said.
'I'm going,' she said. 'Black?' she said.
'Please don't,' I said. 'Long-haired,' I said.
'I hate you!' she said. 'Oh no,' she said.
'You do?' I said. 'Oh yes,' I said.
'Of course,' she said. 'Oh shit!' she said.
'But why?' I said. 'Goodbye,' I said.
'That black hair,' she said.
'A pity,' I said. 'I lied,' she said.
'Time for truth,' she said. 'You lied?' I said.
'For confessions?' I said. 'Of course,' she said.
'Me too,' she said. 'About my friend?' I said.
'You what?' I said. 'Y-ess,' she said.
'Someone else,' she said. 'And the others?' I said.
'Oh dear,' I said. 'Ugh,' she said.
'So there!' she said. 'How odd,' I said.
'Ah well,' I said. 'I'm forgiven?' she said.
'Guess who?' she said. 'Of course,' I said.
'Don't say,' I said. 'I'll stay?' she said.
'I will,' she said. 'Please don't,' I said.