I drink French brandy, and can hardly

Speak a word of the language.


I am the same about Norse sagas;

I can’t order a beer in Icelandic.


I would like to go to the Black Forest,

Even if it is full of white people.

I am not prejudiced;  they are German-speaking,

When they are not Turkish.


I bought mexi-fries from Latin Americans,

But they spoke Spanish to each other.

Why would they not speak Latin?

Is it because it is a dead language?


Is there a special place in the bardo

For dead languages, a place full

Of obscure phonemes and glottal stops,

Where the languages converse in Tibetan,

(Not itself dead, but much beset)

While they wait for rebirth among speakers.


Is Manx waiting there?





My brain hurts from this linguistic cogitation;

I find languages stupefying.


I am, however, deliriously happy

That despite all this, I can drink French brandy.

I have even learned a word of gratitude:


Isn’t that nice!

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