The brillig brinds had long died down
The wabe had gone to sleep
The slithy toves their gimble drown
The mome raths lost their peep. 

All the shorf was calm and geep,
A peaceful fugel filled the air,
But calmness only runs so deep,
Around the monster's lair.

Young Jabberwok the mighty heir,
Had grown into a beast,
And sought our former hero fair,
On his heart to feast.

In fraptuous fields his mind would dwell, 
He'd pace from flomp to flounce,
His sire's words remembered well,
"When scrundled you should pounce."

So lurking out to seek his foe,
Gnashing teeth and jaw,
He crossed the groob and forest loe,
Catching with his claws.

He found the hero at his plate
Scratching with his pen,
Then orkled through the portal gate,
And crundled round the fen.

In the void the hero sat,
Suspecting crunktious deeds,
Scribing ballads inked in black,
About some noxious weeds.

Then charged in young Jabberwok,
With scrouching siffs and swits,
And grabbed the hero by the sock,
And other hanging bits.

The vorpal sword once swift and sleek,
Had lost its edge to time,
The hero's back now bent and weak,
To food must be resigned.

The snacker snick of claws and teeth,
Crickled swiftly through the air,
And swallowed whole both sword and sheath,
And our hero fair.