eddie izzard has a funny bit. when he does imitations of an english accent, he defaults to a james mason tone, though he, himself, is english. i tend to do the same, with an irish lilt, or maybe scottish. i don't know, i speak californian.

~

lass number one ~

'twas a fine time we had, a fine time lass,

larking and divining the truth,

deep probing in search of a greater truth,

greater than the truth we see here,

here in the mundane here and now, a finer truth.

elusive it was, lass. gone it is. gone it will be.

what is left is? o, i hate to say it—the rest

playing out its sing-song, day by day, morbidity.

do you agree? say you know it is the truth.

lass number two ~

hark now (now i'm doing shakespeare), sweet lass, 'tis wrong your needled oath.

fleet larks yet grace stoney crenellations,

today is yet as fine as yesterday.

it was a time we had, and it will be

a time again, if larks be larks again.

~

marketa laughs. in her gorgeous czech accent she says,

"i thought thirteen was your lucky number."

"it is."

"then why an obsession with fourteen lines?" 

"i'm saving thirteen for when we really need it."

she nods, under her breath i hear, "that makes as much sense as the poem."

but i know it does make sense. if i were to say it plainly

it would sound as if i were asking for confirmation,

and such need come 'organically.' this way i ask and i reply,

a safer bet, and in doing so she laughs, confirmation enough for me,

and i know that in nonsense there is, may be, a finer truth.