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Emilia Leonetti Sep 2014
The lecturer stands, waving her hands
Wildly gesticulating
Squawking and screeching and and humming and preaching
Whilst our minds fix on matriculating

"Please, please I beg of you
Responsible for shaping heads
Tell your children this is true -
Use any verb other than 'said'!"

She demonstrates the dialogue tags
That we sages can impart
"Replied", "enquired", "sighed", "ragged"
"Norted", "blorted", "ogled", "blarted" -

But if a child uses all these
What kind of field will they have built?
Cohesive, engaging, with wonderful staging
Or splotted and sploged like a patchwork quilt?

For you see -

All the words inside your head
The ones who unwittingly cover for "said"
Are the drink-addled maidens you see in the street
Holding their heels and walking in bare feet

Flipping their hairs and waving their phones
Cackling and snickering in shrilliing, thrilling tones
As their best friends, the adverbs, grab them by their hair
Determined to prevent an emetic scare

To-ing and fro-ing, and never quite knowing
Where exactly it is they are going
All they know is they eschew intervention
By boldly pleading for more and more attention

But "said" is a lady of quiet grace
Wearing long tresses, muted dresses and a fair face
And sits beside each word with a natural restraint
Holding up quotations without complaint

Till it blends through the text like smooth, creamy paint
And fades till it becomes so, so faint
That it only feels natural to focus instead
On the intentions of the characters inside of your head

It's a word that fills most teachers with dread
But I earnestly plead to befriend the word "said"
For she's a hard-working lady with quiet conviction
- Does that help with your language affliction?
Emilia Leonetti Sep 2014
I flounce across the midnight way
Not one to return anyone's gaze
As I cut through the winter haze
And stumble through the open gate

That leads into an open hall
Where people laugh
Screech
Squawk
Cackle
As pools of yellow hit the walls

I sidle into a cushioned bench
Nobody dares to turn their head
So I fixate on a drink coaster instead
Then order cider from the serving *****

The jungle animals make noises beside me
Screech!
Squawk!
Roar!
Hiss!
My chest tightens and nerves snap inside me

I sidle out of the cushioned bench
Nobody dares to turn their head
No words of farewell or good fortune were said
As I escape the malt-y, acidic stench

Down, hill, down dale, up street, as I pale
My addled head throws me to and fro
Through the winter haze I go
Till I'm home again
And realise
That once again I have failed.

— The End —