Evil Jim (evil_jim) wrote,
Evil Jim

Kublawocky, a poem


by Evil Jim

(with sincerest apologies and respect to Msrs. Carroll, Coleridge & Poe)

'Twas brillig loo in Xanadu
When Kubla Khan wished made
A pleasure dome where borogoves
And mome raths could outgrabe.

So fertile ground was girdled 'round
Of two by five square miles,
With towered walls surrounding all
Of gardens, walks and isles.

The tulgey wood, with incense could
Inspire uffish dreams.
A savage place! enchanting space
And darkly moonlit scenes.

Its river ran where caves no man
Had plumbed their depth or breadth,
Where an ocean froze in motion
Promised only icy death.

But lo!

O! but could the darkest doom have settled on this earth so soon,
And summoned from its timeless tomb some ancient curse of lore?
A split across the hills in twain! a vicious thumbling and again
The earth let loose a scorching rain, uncleansing in its pour.
It forced a fiercesome fountain flood to rival those of yore.
Peace, alas, was found no more.

A movement stirred the shadowed depths, disturbing long at last what kept
The silent, sacred, secret sea from flowing past its shore.
The lance of Sigh had now been broken, and the nightmare never spoken
Of by man nor beast awokened in a burning, burbling glore!
A ruby gleamed -- or so it seemed -- the darkness lived once more,
A feast of fury, fierce and raw.

But Kubla, sitting lonely in his pleasure dome thought only
Of the caverns -- and where the river through those caverns did outpour.
Nothing further he divined whilst divan-bound he reclined,
And for an answer there he pined with the sunset gleaming o'er
The crilliance of the dome reflecting flame upon the floor.
He sit and sat and said no more.

In deepest thought stayed he and now
The air beyond began to howl
From out the caves, from out the ice
A whiffling warning, once . . . thrice.

A krack.
Attack, Attack!
Get back!
Its claws, the jaws, a roar!
One, two! Three, Four!
Flashed the vorpal scimitar,
And stained with what was now no more.

Thus slain by he, the Jabberwock,
And stayed his thirst for sword.
Left it breathless, headless dead
And spake he not a word.

With echoes of the Jabber-
Wocking onward thro' the dim,
Heed my word and ever now
Remember this of him:


Beware of Kubla Khan, my son;
His flashing eyes, his floating hair.
Beware the pleasure dome and shun
The icy caverns there.

©2002-03 Evil Jim
Tags: poem

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