Dewlags and pooklahs pass us by,His sword bemaithed with age and rust,
Long since the Jabberwock's last sigh;
The vorpal blade 'midst trilly dust.
Where be the smally fraifid form
That bravely rhalt the fraggly beast,
And tappled through the tallid storm,
To bring the head to Yooslefeast?
Oh he has gone, porfay, porfay!
As mimble-hush without a sound,
He brought to us form of his flay,
And without word he turned around.
So saff he stood, so darkly blaint,
His face depretched of youthful hue,
None dared approach the newfound saint,
None dared to ask of what he knew.
He frubed and cried unto the night,
Unmelled he shook within his grief.
The boy who oft and umpt to fight
Was gone, his childhood semed so brief.
For battle sworts all uffishness,
Hard in trade boys make to be men,
He timiffed off, his back to us,
Never atheen 'round here again.
Dewlags and pooklahs pass us by,
His sword bemaithed with age and rust,
Long since the Jabberwock's last sigh;
His vorpal blade 'midst trilly dust.
- The Fool
- This posting first appeared @ "Shouting in the Dark" 2007