“Fo' shiz.”

“Most people in Atlanta don't have an accent. It's pretty urban. A lot of people speak gangsta, though," I add jokingly. "Fo' shiz," he replies in his polite English accent. I spurt orangey-red soup across the table. St. Clair gives a surprised ha-HA kind of laugh, and I'm laughing too, the painful kind like abdominal crunches. He hands me a napkin to wipe my chin. "Fo'. Shiz." He repeats it solemnly.Cough cough. "Please don't ever stop saying that. It's too-" I gasp. "Much.""You oughtn't to have said that. Now I shall have to save it for special occasions.""My birthday is in February." Cough choke wheeze. "Please don't forget.”

“Oh, be quiet, Fo-Fo.”

“In books lies the soul fo the whole past time.”

“Fee-fi-fo-fum -Now I'm borrowed.Now I'm numb.”

“I just let it be hard while it is hard without going crazy fo it to get easy.”