Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

There once was a bloke named Spoke Bollinbrooke

He did so ceaselessly too.

On the burning deck,

Hung the noose and his neck

For some sins had since accrued.

Pope Grim the third read the charges

Till many a quill did bend

The hour was tainted,

The housewives had fainted,

No flowers to Porphyria would Robert send.

‘You have but one wish’, declared Grim

‘Before I have your neck.’

The courtroom choked

And thus spake Spoke:

‘There’s this girl I have to wreck.’

Mr. Bollinbrooke survived, and lives in the city of Olafsvik, Iceland with an overactive imagination and a Korean Jindo, who he has named ‘gravy’.   He has a progressively increasing fear of potted plants and nightmares include visions of growing on a tree, incorrectly using the word 'whom' in a sentence and/or being followed by an angry herd of unicorns.

 

And the mome raths outgrabe.

Are you always ahead of your time?
Will hitting the keys 'e' or 'd' on your keypad start a global nuclear war?
Are you presently continuous?
Or have you swallowed a giant slab of raw chicken.


What is 'MIX juice'...'UNMIX tracks'...'MIX tape'...Tony MIXwell?
I understand the earth's axis has jumped and the days are a second shorter, but it takes approx. .23 seconds to type 'MIXED' juice.  UNMIXED tracks.  MIXED tape. Tony Mixwell MIXED well last night.


People please.  Sense the tense.
Or are you bore of all that?

All mimsy were the borogoves

Nakabandi.
Miscalculated turning radius.
White reverse lights on for like a good 20 seconds.
But the jaat insisted on coming in my way.

Cut to: The right side of my car bumper. Gone.
His license plate. Unrecognizable.
My middle finger nail, withtout giving the finger.  Missing.
I wasted the choiciest of splenetives on an inebriated semi-evolved missing link.
That too with the voice-over effect.

Haryana, I love you.

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe

I was always back of the line for morning assembly.  I always skipped the heels section at bata.  If there was a chair, I sat down to speak.  Buying my first pair of boots was cathartic; I didn't just evade frostbite and a very necessary pedicure appointment, I was reborn after over two decades of evading two inches. 
But the men stay short. 
And not just of expectations.

Sir Paul David Hewson: Josephine, beware of small men with big ideas.
Tall Girl: Mea culpa.

I love century gothic.  It's crisp.  Self aware.  And usually unavailable.  Like right now.
For my first words on this page, I am left at the mercy of verdana.  Wit is not it's aquaintance.  Neither is the sweet turn of phrase it's kin.  It's just a font! A series of dots and dashes ingloriously masquerading as MY 200 words per minute.  (Yes I type that fast).

Screw it. Thanks for the confetti n all.  Now let's write.