“And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
He chortled in his joy.
But flangrous boy had tasted blood
And vorpal sword mawthed more–
“My arms, my arms, my bloody arms!”
His father splied and swore.
His arms were gone; his graffond son
Had stolen them away,
With zinner-zunner arms buke asunder
And enervate and splay.
But boy moves on, he doesn’t stop
To trum at babblebush;
He sings a tune, like peery loon
The words from globbox gush:
“’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.”