(a debacled aubade)
when we’ve had our phil of cake,
all we can take of props
(and -ganders, gyre and gimble), slander
says (with forked tongue and slithy toves)
that we are much too brillig for our britches
and flar too mimsy for this moon.
too swoon, all frostingfull and banter
-snatched, we flow a fit and stimply
quit the whole burbled, baffled string.
and zen the crimped sun rises
all bassoonful with suprises
and we flop our haths and sing.
Slightly channeling Lewis Carroll today for the PAD.