Lord MacKona lay sleeping in his TV Room. Enter Lady MacKona trailing several little ones.
Lady MacKona:
But soon they will come for a pound of thy flesh,
And thy little ones will be unhoused.
Lent descends upon us like darkest night,
And thou are bewitched by this most unnatural and loathsome sloth.
Screw your courage to the sticking place, and write something! Book Two!
Me thinks thou art afraid of hard work my lord.
Lord MacKona:
Screw? Screw!?!?
Nay Lady you vex me with such imagery, and hold my manhood cheap!
I fear no man save Death, and of all things, I fear no hard work!
See I lay b’couched, supine, next to hard work and sleep.
But no! Thou dost murder sleep.
Methought I heard your voice cry ‘Sleep no more!,
MacKona will never sleep,’ the innocent sleep in which the writer toils,
Sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleave of plot,
Balm of creative minds, great nature’s second edit,
Chief nourisher of story.
You see madam, all the world’s a couch, and all the men and women merely writers;
And through sleep, per chance to dream beyond these hoary walls,
I travel to yet undiscovered countries,
The full length and breadth of this azure world,
Where ambition takes me to the vaulted heavens,
And the arc of which I bestride like a colossus.
So here I lay I can do no other.
Lady MacKona:
Yeah, right. To your deaf pillow, you discharge your secrets.
O.M.G.L.O.L. There are no words.
Something wicked this way came —
WICKED FUNNY!
“Here I lay I can do no other” is absolutely going on my tombstone.
The rest is silence.
Then must you speak / Of one that lounged not wisely but too well.
Korrektion: ‘lounged’ should be ‘loafed’.
His face upward toward heaven / His backside poised toward hell.
Who says it’s lowbrow around here?
“Sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleave of plot” — so true.
Needs blood. But, nicely done.
Well, JOB is the MacKonas’ houseguest for one more night….
Wake O’Brien with thy knocking! I would thou couldst!
Who would have thought the old man to have had so much Boddingtons in him?
A little Vitaminwater clears us of this deed.
Don’t dumb it down please even as a joke.
Unless it’s a funny joke.
Please delete last two comments.
I’ve deleted them from my mind. Mad cow.
“all the world’s a couch.” I’ve been waiting for someone to cut to the heart of things like this.
These needs to be performed as the evening entertainment at the next Gerasene.
I pray you, remember the Potter.
The play’s the (attached) lobe wherein we catch the JOB(e).