This is a reprint of my poem that appeared previously in The Quarterday Review.

—

’Twas Tuesday last when Lewis flipped.
He gyred and gimbled in his crypt.
For wonkish is free poetry —
No sense of form or symmetry.

Sans punctuation, meter, rhyme,
It bombinates and oftentime
Confuses with experimentation —
A baffling read, abstract creation.

Penned by Jubs lacking volition,
Crammed on shelves across the nation,
Filling our books with naught but litter,
Words that bore, obscure, embitter.

Lewis spoke and blazoned clear,
Loud enough for all to hear:
“Yours is the torch. Yours to cherish.
You mustn’t allow our rhyme to perish.

“It must not die a mimsy death.
It must survive. It must breathe breath.”
The Jabberwock did then acclaim,
Its timbre loud, its zeal aflame:

“The vorpal blade has fought the foe
And struck its uffish, final blow.
Rhyme is not dead! It lives. It cries.
It soothes the soul. It calms. It sighs.”

’Twas Wednesday last, when in his crypt
Slept Lewis, sound, no more verklypt.
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!
Our rhyme survives. Our rhyme shall stay!