poem contest

Strona 1 z 14 Konkurs recytatorski poezji w języku angielskim w XXVII Liceum Ogólnokształcącym im Tadeusza Czackiego w Warszawie

REGULAMIN 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.

4. Repertuar uczestników obejmuje poezję w języku

angielskim.

5. Każdy uczeń zobowiązany jest przygotować dwa wiersze.

6. Czas wykonania wiersza nie może przekroczyć 5 min.

7. Prezentację ocenia jury złożone z nauczycieli języka

angielskiego wg następujących kryteriów:

Dobór repertuaru (dostosowanie do możliwości

wykonawczych uczestnika)

Interpretacja tekstu

Poprawność wymowy

Ogólny wyraz artystyczny

8. Decyzje JURY są ostateczne i niepodważalne.

___________________________________________________________________________________

KARTA ZGŁOSZENIA DO KONKURSU RECYTATORSKIEGO

Klasę _________________________reprezentują:

L.P. Imię i nazwisko ucznia repertuar

1.

2.

3. *


George Gordon Byron

She Walks in Beauty

She walks in Beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellowed to that tender light Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express, How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!

William Wordswotrh

Daffodils

I wander’d lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the Milky Way, They stretch'd in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company: I gazed -- and gazed -- but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch I lie

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.


Robert Frost

Road Less Travelled

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth

Then took the other as just as fair

And having perhaps the better claim Because it was grassy and wanted wear Though as for that, the passing there Had worn them really about the same

And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet, knowing how way leads onto way I doubted if I should ever come back

I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence Two roads diverged in a wood

And I took the one less traveled by And that has made all the difference

Emily Dickinson

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain, And Mourners to and fro

Kept treading – treading – till it seemed That Sense was breaking through –

And when they all were seated,

A Service, like a Drum – Kept beating – beating – till I thought

My Mind was going numb –

And then I heard them lift a Box And creak across my Soul

With those same Boots of Lead, again, Then Space – began to toll,

As all the Heavens were a Bell,

And Being, but an Ear, And I, and Silence, some strange Race

Wrecked, solitary, here –

And then a Plank in Reason, broke, And I dropped down, and down – And hit a World, at every plunge, And Finished knowing – then –

http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/155


Walt Whitman

O Captain! My Captain!

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won,

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead. O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up- for you the

flag is flung- for you the bugle trills,

For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths- for you the shores a-crowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

Here Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head!

It is some dream that on the deck, You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will, The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; Exult O shores, and ring O bells!

But I with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

Czeslaw Milosz Translated by Anthony Milosz

A Song On the End of the World

On the day the world ends A bee circles a clover,

A fisherman mends a glimmering net. Happy porpoises jump in the sea,

By the rainspout young sparrows are playing And the snake is gold-skinned as it should always be.

On the day the world ends Women walk through the fields under their umbrellas,

A drunkard grows sleepy at the edge of a lawn, Vegetable peddlers shout in the street

And a yellow-sailed boat comes nearer the island, The voice of a violin lasts in the air

And leads into a starry night. And those who expected lightning and thunder

Are disappointed. And those who expected signs and archangels' trumps

Do not believe it is happening now. As long as the sun and the moon are above,

As long as the bumblebee visits a rose, As long as rosy infants are born

No one believes it is happening now. Only a white-haired old man, who would be a prophet

Yet is not a prophet, for he's much too busy, Repeats while he binds his tomatoes:

No other end of the world will there be, No other end of the world will there be.




Rudyard Kipling

If—

If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies, Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,

And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream--and not make dreams your master; If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with triumph and disaster And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to broken, And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you 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

With sixty seconds' worth of distance run-- Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!

Naomi Shihab Nye

Making a Fist

For the first time, on the road north of Tampico, I felt the life sliding out of me,

a drum in the desert, harder and harder to hear. I was seven, I lay in the car

watching palm trees swirl a sickening pattern past the glass.

My stomach was a melon split wide inside my skin.

"How do you know if you are going to die?" I begged my mother.

We had been traveling for days. With strange confidence she answered, "When you can no longer make a fist."

Years later I smile to think of that journey,

the borders we must cross separately, stamped with our unanswerable woes. I who did not die, who am still living,

still lying in the backseat behind all my questions, clenching and opening one small hand.


http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/making-a-fist/


Emily Brontë

Stanzas

Often rebuked, yet always back returning To those first feelings that were born with me, And leaving busy chase of wealth and learning

For idle dreams of things that cannot be:

To-day, I will seek not the shadowy region; Its unsustaining vastness waxes drear; And visions rising, legion after legion,

Bring the unreal world too strangely near.

I'll walk, but not in old heroic traces, And not in paths of high morality,

And not among the half-distinguished faces, The clouded forms of long-past history.

I'll walk where my own nature would be leading:

It vexes me to choose another guide: Where the gray flocks in ferny glens are feeding;

Where the wild wind blows on the mountain side.

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.

W.H. Auden

Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,

Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead

Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead. Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,

Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest,

My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun, Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods; For nothing now can ever come to any good.

http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/index_poet_A.html#Auden


Edgar Allan Poe

A Dream Within A Dream

Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now,

Thus much let me avow-- You are not wrong, who deem

That my days have been a dream; Yet if hope has flown away

In a night, or in a day, In a vision, or in none,

Is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seem

Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar Of a surf-tormented shore, And I hold within my hand Grains of the golden sand--

How few! yet how they creep Through my fingers to the deep,

While I weep--while I weep! O God! can I not grasp

Them with a tighter clasp? O God! can I not save

One from the pitiless wave? Is all that we see or seem

But a dream within a dream?

John Milton

On Time

Fly envious Time, till thou run out thy race, Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours,

Whose speed is but the heavy Plummets pace; And glut thy self with what thy womb devours, Which is no more then what is false and vain,

And meerly mortal dross; So little is our loss, So little is thy gain.

For when as each thing bad thou hast entomb'd, And last of all, thy greedy self consum'd, Then long Eternity shall greet our bliss

With an individual kiss; And Joy shall overtake us as a flood,

When every thing that is sincerely good And perfectly divine,

With Truth, and Peace, and Love shall ever shine About the supreme Throne

Of him, t' whose happy-making sight alone, When once our heav'nly-guided soul shall clime,

Then all this Earthy grosnes quit,


William Blake

The Tyger

Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye

Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire? And what shoulder and what art

Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And, when thy heart began to beat,

What dread hand and what dread feet? What the hammer? what the chain?

In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp

Dare its deadly terrors clasp? When the stars threw down their spears,

And watered heaven with their tears, Did He smile His work to see?

Did He who made the lamb make thee? Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

John Donne

The Flea

Mark but this flea, and mark in this, How little that which thou deny'st me is; It sucked me first, and now sucks thee,

And in this flea our two bloods mingled be; Thou know'st that this cannot be said

A sin, nor shame, nor loss of maidenhead; Yet this enjoys before it woo,

And pampered swells with one blood made of two, And this, alas, is more than we would do.

Oh stay, three lives in one flea spare,

Where we almost, yea, more than married are. This flea is you and I, and this

Our marriage bed, and marriage temple is; Though parents grudge, and you, w'are met,

And cloistered in these living walls of jet. Though use make you apt to kill me, Let not to that, self-murder added be,

And sacrilege, three sins in killing three.

Cruel and sudden, hast thou since Purpled thy nail in blood of innocence?

Wherein could this flea guilty be, 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


Thomas Hardy

The Darkling Thrush

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 Like strings of broken lyres,

And all mankind that haunted nigh Had sought their household fires.

The land's sharp features seemed to be

The Century's corpse outleant, His crypt the cloudy canopy, The wind his death-lament.

The ancient pulse of germ and birth Was shrunken hard and dry, And every spirit upon earth

Seemed fevourless as I.

At once a voice arose among The bleak twigs overhead In a full-hearted evensong

Of joy illimited; An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,

In blast-beruffled plume, Had chosen thus to fling his soul

Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings Of such ecstatic sound

Was written on terrestrial things Afar or nigh around,

That I could think there trembled through His happy good-night air

Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew And I was unaware.

Max Ehrmann

The Desiderata of Happiness

I sat with the stars on the hill of life And looked at the world below.

I ran with the winds where winds begin And followed them where they blow.

I lay by the sea on the beaten rock

And rode on the farthest wave, I watched by a child on its night of birth

And followed it to its grave.

And love in the still of the star-flecked night, When earth was all strewn with gold,

Has lifted my heart like the chords of song Oft sung in the world of old.

And though I have not understood all this,

Made up a laugh and a wail, I think that the God of the world knows all,

And someday will tell the tale.

http://www.aumara.com/inspirations/books/booksphilosophy.html


William Shakespeare

All the World's a Stage

All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players;

They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts,

His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.

Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail

Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad

Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,

Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,

In fair round belly with good capon lined, With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances;

And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,

With spectacles on nose and pouch on side; His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide 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.

Wislawa Szymborska Translated by Clare Cavanagh and Stanislaw

Baranczak

Nothing Twice

Nothing can ever happen twice. In consequence, the sorry fact is that we arrive here improvised

and leave without the chance to practice.

Even if there is no one dumber, if you're the planet's biggest dunce,

you can't repeat the class in summer: this course is only offered once.

No day copies yesterday,

no two nights will teach what bliss is in precisely the same way,

with precisely the same kisses.

One day, perhaps some idle tongue mentions your name by accident:

I feel as if a rose were flung into the room, all hue and scent.

The next day, though you're here with me,

I can't help looking at the clock: A rose? A rose? What could that be?

Is it a flower or a rock?

Why do we treat the fleeting day with so much needless fear and sorrow?

It's in its nature not to say Today is always gone tomorrow

With smiles and kisses, we prefer to seek accord beneath our star,

although we're different (we concur) just as two drops of water are.


Strona 11 z 14 Konkurs recytatorski poezji w języku angielskim w XXVII Liceum Ogólnokształcącym im Tadeusza Czackiego w Warszawie Allan Ahlberg Please Mrs Butler Please Mrs Butler This boy Derek Drew Keeps copying my work, Miss. What shall I do? Go and sit in the hall, dear. Go and sit in the sink. Take your books on the roof, my lamb. Do whatever you think. Please Mrs Butler This boy Derek Drew Keeps taking my rubber, Miss. What shall I do? Keep it in your hand, dear. Hide it up your vest. Swallow it if you like, love. Do what you think best. Please Mrs Butler This boy Derek Drew Keeps calling me rude names, Miss. What shall I do? Lock yourself in the cupboard, dear. Run away to sea. Do whatever you can, my flower. But don't ask me!

Hilaire Belloc Matilda Who told lies, and was burned to death Matilda told such Dreadful Lies, It made one Gasp and Stretch one's Eyes; Her Aunt, who, from her Earliest Youth, Had kept a Strict Regard for Truth, Attempted to Believe Matilda: The effort very nearly killed her, And would have done so, had not She Discovered this Infirmity. For once, towards the Close of Day, Matilda, growing tired of play, And finding she was left alone, Went tiptoe to the Telephone And summoned the Immediate Aid Of London's Noble Fire-Brigade. Within an hour the Gallant Band Were pouring in on every hand, From Putney, Hackney Downs, and Bow. With Courage high and Hearts a-glow, They galloped, roaring through the Town, 'Matilda's House is Burning Down!' Inspired by British Cheers and Loud Proceeding from the Frenzied Crowd, They ran their ladders through a score Of windows on the Ball Room Floor;

And took Peculiar Pains to Souse The Pictures up and down the House, Until Matilda's Aunt succeeded In showing them they were not needed; And even then she had to pay To get the Men to go away! It happened that a few Weeks later Her Aunt was off to the Theatre To see that Interesting Play The Second Mrs. Tanqueray. She had refused to take her Niece To hear this Entertaining Piece: A Deprivation Just and Wise To Punish her for Telling Lies. That Night a Fire did break out-- You should have heard Matilda Shout! You should have heard her Scream and Bawl, And throw the window up and call To People passing in the Street-- (The rapidly increasing Heat Encouraging her to obtain Their confidence) -- but all in vain! For every time she shouted 'Fire!' They only answered 'Little Liar!' And therefore when her Aunt returned, Matilda, and the House, were Burned.

Strona 12 z 14 Konkurs recytatorski poezji w języku angielskim w XXVII Liceum Ogólnokształcącym im Tadeusza Czackiego w Warszawie Hilaire Belloc Rebecca Who Slammed Doors For Fun And Perished Miserably A trick that everyone abhors In little girls is slamming doors. A wealthy banker's little daughter Who lived in Palace Green, Bayswater (By name Rebecca Offendort), Was given to this furious sport. She would deliberately go And slam the door like Billy-o! To make her uncle Jacob start. She was not really bad at heart, But only rather rude and wild; She was an aggravating child... It happened that a marble bust Of Abraham was standing just Above the door this little lamb Had carefully prepared to slam, And down it came! It knocked her flat! It laid her out! She looked like that. Her funeral sermon (which was long And followed by a sacred song) Mentioned her virtues, it is true, But dwelt upon her vices too, And showed the dreadful end of one Who goes and slams the door for fun. The children who were brought to hear

The awful tale from far and near Were much impressed, and inly swore They never more would slam the door, -- As often they had done before. Lewis Carroll Father William "You are old, Father William," the young man said, "And your hair has become very white; And yet you incessantly stand on your head-- Do you think, at your age, it is right?" "In my youth," Father William replied to his son, "I feared it might injure the brain; But, now that I'm perfectly sure I have none, Why, I do it again and again." "You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before, And have grown most uncommonly fat; Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door-- Pray, what is the reason of that?" "In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his gray locks, "I kept all my limbs very supple By the use of this ointment -- one shilling the box - Allow me to sell you a couple?" "You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weak For anything tougher than suet;

Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak-- Pray, how did you manage to do it?" "In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law, And argued each case with my wife; And the muscular strength which it gave to my jaw Has lasted the rest of my life." "You are old," said the youth, "one would hardly suppose That your eye was as steady as ever; Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose-- What made you so awfully clever?" "I have answered three questions, and that is enough," Said his father; "don't give yourself airs! Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff? Be off, or I'll kick you down-stairs!"

Strona 13 z 14 Konkurs recytatorski poezji w języku angielskim w XXVII Liceum Ogólnokształcącym im Tadeusza Czackiego w Warszawie Jenny Joseph Warning When I am an old woman I shall wear purple With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me. And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter. I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells And run my stick along the public railings And make up for the sobriety of my youth. I shall go out in my slippers in the rain And pick flowers in other people's gardens And learn to spit. You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat And eat three pounds of sausages at a go Or only bread and pickle for a week And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes. But now we must have clothes that keep us dry And pay our rent and not swear in the street And set a good example for the children. We must have friends to dinner and read the papers. But maybe I ought to practice a little now?

So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple. Roald Dahl Little Red Riding Hood and the Wolf As soon as Wolf began to feel That he would like a decent meal, He went and knocked on Grandma's door. When Grandma opened it, she saw The sharp white teeth, the horrid grin, And Wolfie said, ``May I come in?'' Poor Grandmamma was terrified, ``He's going to eat me up!'' she cried. And she was absolutely right. He ate her up in one big bite. But Grandmamma was small and tough, And Wolfie wailed, ``That's not enough! I haven't yet begun to feel That I have had a decent meal!'' He ran around the kitchen yelping, `Ì've got to have a second helping!'' Then added with a frightful leer, `Ì'm therefore going to wait right here Till Little Miss Red Riding Hood Comes home from walking in the wood.'' He quickly put on Grandma's clothes, (Of course he hadn't eaten those). He dressed himself in coat and hat. He put on shoes, and after that He even brushed and curled his hair,

Then sat himself in Grandma's chair. In came the little girl in red. She stopped. She stared. And then she said, ``What great big ears you have, Grandma.'' `Àll the better to hear you with,'' the Wolf replied. ``What great big eyes you have, Grandma.'' said Little Red Riding Hood. `Àll the better to see you with,'' the Wolf replied. He sat there watching her and smiled. He thought, I'm going to eat this child. Compared with her old Grandmamma She's going to taste like caviar. Then Little Red Riding Hood said, ``But Grandma, what a lovely great big furry coat you have on.'' ``That's wrong!'' cried Wolf. ``Have you forgot To tell me what BIG TEETH I've got? Ah well, no matter what you say, I'm going to eat you anyway.'' The small girl smiles. One eyelid flickers. She whips a pistol from her knickers. She aims it at the creature's head And bang bang bang, she shoots him dead. A few weeks later, in the wood, I came across Miss Riding Hood. But what a change! No cloak of red, No silly hood upon her head. She said, ``Hello, and do please note 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 Hair Today, No Her Tomorrow 'I've been upstairs,' she said. 'Oh yes?' I said. 'I found a hair,' she said. 'A hair?' I said. 'In the bed,' she said. 'From a head?' I said. 'It's not mine,' she said. 'Was it black?' I said. 'It was,' she said. 'I'll explain,' I said. 'You swine,' she said. 'Not quite,' I said. 'I'm going,' she said. 'Please don't,' I said. 'I hate you!' she said. 'You do?' I said. 'Of course,' she said. 'But why?' I said. 'That black hair,' she said. 'A pity,' I said. 'Time for truth,' she said. 'For confessions?' I said. 'Me too,' she said. 'You what?' I said. 'Someone else,' she said. 'Oh dear,' I said. 'So there!' she said. 'Ah well,' I said. 'Guess who?' she said. 'Don't say,' I said. 'I will,' she said.

'You would,' I said. 'Your friend,' she said. 'Oh damn,' I said. 'And his friend,' she said. 'Him too?' I said. 'And the rest,' she said. 'Good God,' I said. 'What's that?' she said. 'What's what?' I said. 'That noise?' she said. 'Upstairs?' I said. 'Yes,' she said. 'The new cat,' I said. 'A cat?' she said. 'It's black,' I said. 'Black?' she said. 'Long-haired,' I said. 'Oh no,' she said. 'Oh yes,' I said. 'Oh shit!' she said. 'Goodbye,' I said. 'I lied,' she said. 'You lied?' I said. 'Of course,' she said. 'About my friend?' I said. 'Y-ess,' she said. 'And the others?' I said. 'Ugh,' she said. 'How odd,' I said. 'I'm forgiven?' she said. 'Of course,' I said. 'I'll stay?' she said. 'Please don't,' I said.

'But why?' she said. 'I lied,' I said. 'About what?' she said. 'The new cat,' I said. 'It's white,' I said.

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