In the Pub with Lewis
'Twas brillig! He's a blithely cove
who brundled not of gruffish math
nor quoxxed all theor-ish like a gove
but only wordlithath.
He glired, all uffish, as he murmed
how micely teasquats made him cry,
the Jabberwork's untimely thermed,
and why pigs cannot fly.
We drainged the Drink-Me's lickerly jar
and wallowrushed to mark
the Chesil Cat's unseemly flar
and mucheon of the Snark.
He's brillig! 'Twas a frabjous eve,
The Rabbit Hole a burbling pub
for whiffly tales of unbeleeve
and other tweedlebub.
D. A. Prince
If you have any comments on this poem, D. A. Prince would be
pleased to hear from you.