Let us go, my beamish boy,
When the sky cries forth the chortled joy,
Like a Jubjub in the tumtum tree.
Let us go, through certain half-deserted lands
The muttering demands
Of uffish thoughts on manxome foes besought
And seeking, seeking, yet only finding nought:
Lands that follow like a frumious bandersnatch
of insidious intent
Leading to the jaws that bite, the claws that catch …
Oh, do not ask, “Where is it?”
Let us go and try to stab it.
In the rooms the women gyre and rove
speaking of the borogoves.
I should have been a pair of slithy toves,
Whiffling through sunsets and dooryards of sprinkled streets.
I shall fade … I shall fade …
Keeping my mome raths outgrabe.
Shall I bear the Vorpal Blade? Do I dare to hope and pray..
I shall wear hard slivered mail, that frabjous day, Callooh, Callay.
And hear the mermaids call out “Don’t delay.”
I do not think they’re calling out to me.
We have lingered in the chambers of our fears
Watched by those who gyre and gimble against the black
Til we have slain the Jabberwock and come galumphing back.