My eleventh grade art teacher was a handsome art devil who spoke Portugese and Spanish. The devil. He said it's a very beautiful language, the most beautiful he knew. He'd learn a language because of that sort of thing. He spoke some of the beautiful language; beautifully. And he gazed off gazily, and moaned "Brazil....." We talked about it. We were friends, and knew what we liked. Girls, for one thing. Exotic places, for another. He married my guitar teacher; but I knew her first. Coincidence? Maybe.
Not more than three weeks later, the class got a transfer student from Brazil. A muy, muy beautiful girl, in Braaahseeeeleeeuhn mini skirts, who spoke only Portugese. The devils.
They sat around speaking beautiful Portugese together. While "we" worked on stuff.
Like birds, talking birds, it was. No - singing.
I need to hire some people, to come over here and speak Portugese. Maybe I can ask MJ, for my birthday. |
