Beware What You Say of the Jabberwock, My Son

It was in fact particularly brillig, that day, and the toves were, I admit, slithy and there was a certain amount of gyring and gimbling in the wabe. And yes, the borogroves *were* in fact, mimsy. The mome…it was *somewhat* outgrabe. I don’t know if I’d have said “it definitely raths outgrabe”, really. The Bandersnatch–it has often been maligned. People call it frumious. An exaggeration, in my opinion. The Jabberwock, to be perfectly candid, came waffling, not whiffling, I remember it distinctly. At first recollection, I thought it was actually in the bulgey wood, but no, on consideration–it was indeed the tulgey wood. The creature burbled, that I admit. But slaying the Jabberwock and dancing about shouting how frabjous the day is–that seems inappropriate to me. Jabberwocks are gorgeous creatures, there can’t be more than forty or fifty million of them in the North of England, so really, to say the day so marvelous a creature was killed was frabjous–it simply makes me snicker-snack, with, well, a rubber blade, as I’m not permitted to have a vorpal one.

They won’t trust me with any sort of real blade here, sadly.

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