I imagine
that
I am
Bert Lahr
's son
and that
when dad
was
trying
on
Waiting for Godot
before doing it on
Broadway
deciding about
it
he came
into my
room
he came
into
my room
one evening
and
read:
Estragon: All the dead voices.
Vladimir: They make a noise like wings.
Eastragon: Like leaves.
Vladimir: Like sand.
Estragon: Like leaves.
(and then
and then
again
John ben Bert
Lahr
continues as his
dad
continued:
"He writes beautifully, doesn't he? His meter - he's a poet,
isn't he? His rhythm is crisp; there's meter to it, same as poetry.
It's not cumbersome; it's in character. It flows."
I imagine
that I am
this
Cowardly Lion:
"put 'em up. put 'em up. yuh
wanna fight?
yuh
wanna?
yah
wanna?
put
'em
up
put 'emmmmm up....
