‘Twas brillig, and the no longer slithy toves
Had ceased to gyre and gimble in the wabe;
The borogoves has lost all their mimsy,
And the mome raths had lost their outgrabe.
“Mourn the Jabberwock, my son
The jaws that smile, the eyes that watch!
Great friend to the Jubjub bird, and rival of
The frumious Bandersnatch!”
He feared no vorpal sword no matter the hand;
He hated his foe, manxome or nought—
Bad memories sat by the Tumtum tree,
Where the horrible deed was wrought.
That man had looked so uffish where he stood,
The Jabberwock, with help as his end game,
Barely whiffled through the tulgey wood,
And avoiding burbling, he came!
One, two! One, two! And through and through
That nasty vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left dad dead, even cut off his head
Laughing as he galumphed back.
“Why hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
He meant you no harm, you less than beamish boy!
Not a frabjous day! Stop your Calloohs! Your Callays!”
If you choke chortling, I will surely find joy.
Next brillig, I promise you toves
You will again gyre and gimble in the wabe;
I’ll return mimsy to the borogoves,
And ensure the mome raths are outgrabe.
I will find that cumgious boy,
He will have no place to hide!
I will have my revenge my friends
I swear on this glauride!