What is the Jabberwock?
Is it the snicker in the dark,
The frumious shadow in the park,
The whiffle in the tulgey wood?
Is it the thing I understood,
Or is it something far more stark?
What is the Jabberwock?
Is it my mother, sweet and kind,
With pie and love and gentle mind?
Or is it me, my twisted face,
A gimbling ghost, a vile disgrace,
A thing I cannot leave behind?
I hate the Jabberwock.
Its eyes that gloon, its jaws that bite,
Its voice that whispers in the night.
It mocks me, stalks me, makes me fear,
It's always far, it's always near,
A blot upon the wabe's pure light.
I want to kill the Jabberwock.
I took the blade, the Vorpal steel,
To make it real, to make it feel.
But when I struck, it laughed and hissed,
"You cannot kill what does not exist.
The Jabberwock is what you seek."
What is the Jabberwock?
Is it the borogoves that mome,
The raths that outgrabe, the sky that's tome?
Is it the world, or just a dream,
A gimbling sea, a vorpal stream,
A thing that's more than it may seem?
I hate the Jabberwock.
It disgusts me, it fills my soul,
A frabjous void, a gaping hole.
I want to tear it, rend it, break it,
But every step I take, I make it.
The Jabberwock is my own toll.
What is the Jabberwock?
Is it the snicker in the dark,
The frumious shadow in the park?
Or is it me, my twisted face,
A gimbling ghost, a vile disgrace,
A thing I cannot leave behind?